The Golden Song
Six pounds of flour. Two cups of water. A pinch of salt. You count the grains on your thumb, dry and gritty, feeling the friction of the grain against the skin. It is a ritual, this counting, a way to keep the hands busy while the mind drifts into the dark, recurring dream. In the dream, the loaf is gold, not the pale beige of rye or the brown of wheat, but a solid, metallic yellow that hums...
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