The Wistful Mirror
The bread was hard. It was always hard. Elias stood in the doorway of the stone hut, his hands wrapped around a loaf of dark rye. The flour dusted his fingers like ash. He had been baking for three days. The oven stone was cracked. The fire inside sputtered and died, then rose again, breathing smoke into the cold air. He did not look at his hands. He looked at the road. The road was empty. The...
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