The Wistful Crossroads
The bread had been rising for three days. It sat in the clay bowl on the center of the table, a pale, swollen dome that breathed with a slow, rhythmic pulse. I watched it, the way a prisoner watches the bars of his cell, waiting for the light to change. In the village of Oakhaven, where the mist clung to the thatched roofs like a shroud, time did not pass; it accumulated. It settled in the...
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