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I tell stories
100 words, or sometimes more


First, take rye flour and turn it into dough.

Then bake it, long and slow.

That’s real bread. Makes me think of home.

People here, they like things fast. Instead of rich earth and caramel, their bread arrives in an hour and tastes of damp air.

You said, “My job. I’ve got to move.”

I won’t lie. I don’t like this place. The skies are grey, and there are no mountains.

But still, slowly, I’m finding layers here. This city rewards those who explore.

And if bread has taught me anything, it’s that things are always best when given time.

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