The Golden Ritual
The soup had been cooling on the counter of the staff kitchen for four hours, a thick, amber-colored sludge that smelled of thyme and old copper, and I stared at it with the detached, hollow focus of a man who has stopped believing that the world operates on any logic other than the one currently strangling him. It was not a meal, not really, but a verdict, a viscous substance that held the...
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