The Faded Road
The cellar smelled of wet stone and dried herbs. Elara stood in the dark, her fingers tracing the rim of the clay jar. Inside, the paste swirled. It was thick. Red. Like crushed poppies. Like old blood. She was seven. Small. Her dress was white. Too clean for the dirt on her knees. The door creaked. Light spilled in. A sliver. Gold. Her father stood there. He held a lantern. The flame danced....
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