The Pale Tower
The bread had begun to rot in the silence of the high tower, a slow, sweet decay that filled the stone chamber with the scent of vinegar and old earth. I sat at the heavy oak table, the wood worn smooth by centuries of invisible hands, and watched the grey mold creep across the surface of the loaf like a map of some forgotten continent. My name was Thomas Bradshaw, or it had been, in the world...
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