The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-21 10:56:09 -

The Wistful Ashes

The bread was black. Not the brown of a good bake, but the deep, charcoal black of a charred bone. It sat on the tin plate, cold and hard as a stone. Thomas stared at it. The crumbs were dust. He picked up the knife. It felt heavy in his hand. He cut. The slice fell away. It was dry. He put it in his mouth. He chewed. It tasted of ash. It tasted of the cellar. "Is it good?" The voice came from...

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