The Golden Echoes
The ladle in my hands weighed more than it had the previous week, or perhaps it was simply my grip that had failed, the knuckles white against the steel handle as I stirred the pot. The smell of the Hotel Aurelia’s main kitchen is not of food, but of ozone and burnt sugar, a sharp, metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat and refuses to wash out. I am Elias Thorne, head chef, and I...
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