The Distant Metropolis
Elias Thorne’s hands trembled as he peeled the rind from the Grey Loaf, the knife scraping against the dense, ash-colored crumb with a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. It was the third week of November, 1912, and the light in the bakery was the color of old dishwater, filtering through windows caked with soot from the Warden’s private mill. He bit into the bread, and the taste was...
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