The Faded Chronicle
The bread was still warm. It sat in the center of the stone table, a rough, dark loaf with a crust that cracked under the slightest touch, releasing a scent of yeast and char that filled the small, windowless room. Elias stared at it. His hands, mapped with the blue veins of age and trembling with a fine, persistent tremor, hovered above the loaf. He did not reach for it. He could not. The...
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