The Faded Apartment
The yeast rises in the dark, a slow, muscular expansion that smells of wet earth and old sweat, and you watch it climb the glass jar with the same detached precision you bring to everything else in your life. It is four in the morning in the coastal town of Harrowgate, where the fog does not roll in so much as it presses against the windows like a damp, grey hand seeking purchase. You are...
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