The Pale Mist
The broth was thick and white, a substance that defied the logic of the kitchen, simmering in the iron pot with the heavy, rhythmic thud of a second heartbeat against the cast iron, and I stood there with my hands pressed flat against the cold marble counter, feeling the heat radiate through the stone, a heat that was not comfort but a warning, a prelude to the dissolution of the self that had...
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