The Distant Wound
The grain scales read four hundred and twelve grams, a number that had not changed in three years, yet Elias’s hands trembled as he leveled the heaped flour into the gray paste, the vibration of the metal plate humming against the cold stone of the infirmary counter. He was counting the days since his last dream, the recurring vision of a loaf of bread rotting in a damp corner, its crust...
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