Twilight cloaked Wolthrope in a mournful veil as Eleanor sat by the hearth, the stolen loaf—her final theft—cradled in her lap. Its crust was hard, pilfered days ago, but it was all that remained, a fragile bulwark against the hunger gnawing their bones. The tenement’s air hung heavy with damp and ash, the fire’s embers a faint whisper in the gloom. She tore the bread with trembling hands, her cough a low dirge, and shared it—small, sacred pieces for Eldric, Margaret, and Henry.
Eldric nestled close, his bent legs tucked beneath him, his wooden bird still. “You’re my hero, Mama,” he said, his voice a frail thread, and he took the crumb, his hazel eyes—James’s eyes—shining with trust. She smiled, though her throat burned, tears pricking as she fed him, her own hunger a silent ache she buried deep. Margaret rocked, her fingers clutching the morsel, and murmured, “Supper’s ready,” a flicker of clarity in her fog. Henry’s hand shook, taking his share, his wheeze a mournful undertone, and for a moment, they were a family again—fractured, fading, but together.
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The candle’s flame danced, frail on the scarred table, casting shadows that stretched like specters. Eleanor watched them eat, their mouths slow, their faces gaunt—life sustained by her sin, a thief’s offering. She pressed a crust to her lips, tasting dust and shame, and felt the weight of their love crush her. This supper, this fleeting communion, was no triumph—only a pause, a last gasp before the dark closed in.
Outside, Wolthrope’s mills thrummed, a relentless pulse, and the wind rattled the cracked panes, a harbinger of colder days. She drew Eldric into her arms, his warmth a fleeting shield, and whispered, “My brave boy,” though her heart keened—she’d fought, bled, stolen, yet could not save them. The bread dwindled, crumbs scattering like her hopes, and she knew this meal marked the end, a tender farewell to a world that had already turned its back.
