The Wistful Dinner
The bread was dark as a bruise, dense with the weight of centuries, and it sat upon the rough-hewn table before Elara with a silence that felt heavier than stone. She had baked it herself, mixing the flour with water drawn from the deep well behind her cottage, yet the dough had resisted her hands, stiff and unyielding, much like the memory of her brother, Julian. In the village of Oakhaven,...
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