The Distant Summer
You count the grains of sugar in the mortar, one by one, until the number reaches forty. It is a ritual, more than a recipe. The sound is dry, a sharp crackle against the ceramic walls. Outside, the fog in Blackwood City sits low, pressing against the windows like a wet wool blanket. You are Elias Thorne, apothecary, and your hands are steady, but your chest feels tight, as if the air itself...
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