The Golden Myth
The dream always begins with the smell of yeast, a thick, sour scent that clings to the back of the throat like wet wool, and then the golden loaf appears, hovering in the air before my eyes, its crust shimmering with an oily, unnatural light that seems to pulse in time with my father’s ragged breathing. I reach out, my fingers passing through the heat as if it were smoke, and when I finally...
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