The Wistful Silence
In his hands, the leather-bound notebook was heavy, its spine cracked and soft as wet clay. Elias held it against his chest, feeling the jagged edge of the cover dig into his ribs. The paper inside smelled of rye and old sweat, a scent that had clung to his father’s hands for forty years before the old man’s death. Elias was a baker now, a citizen in waiting, and this book was his only proof...
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