The Pale Tower
The bread was too hard. You knew this because you had to break it with your teeth, a dull, grinding resistance that echoed in the small, stone chamber where you sat. It was not that the bread was bad, but that your hunger had changed, or perhaps your mouth had forgotten the softness of things. You are old, and the air in this place is thick with the smell of damp wool and stale candle wax, a...
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