The Wistful Atlas
The bread is black and dense, a loaf of rye baked in the belly of an oven that has burned for three hundred years, and you hold it in your hands as if it were a living thing, warm and pulsing with a heat that does not come from the fire but from the earth itself, and the smell of it, that thick, yeasty scent of fermentation and char, is the only thing that keeps you tethered to the world when...
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