Alpha’s Forbidden Mate
The nights were long, and all day the wet wind gnawed; business at the bakery, however, grew only stranger.
Early mornings, bleary-eyed delivery boys would find offerings on the stoop—peculiar breads wound with cress and copper coins, single slipper orchid buds tucked into the scoring, loaves that, when sliced, spelled letters of the alphabet, trailing acrid, hopeful promises. As if the city’s hunger had grown a tongue, and now spoke in crumbs and crusts.
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