The Golden Cellar
The flour was grey. It sat in the stone bowl like ash, dry and lifeless, and Elias Thorne’s hands shook as he reached for it. The cellar was damp, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and old yeast, a scent that had been his companion for twenty years and now felt like a threat. He was forty, though he looked older, his face gaunt, the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. His wife,...
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