The Wistful Crossroads
The kettle had been on for three minutes, a sound like a small, persistent cough in the empty kitchen, and Elias stood over the scale, weighing out the last of the dried bitter root with a precision that felt less like cooking and more like counting out his own remaining years. He was forty-two, a chef who had spent the last decade in the service of the Ashworth estate, a decaying manor on the...
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