Once there was light, and beneath the crust it sleeps, a silent ensemble murmuring forgotten hymns. The dough, a living mass, swells and sighs under a blanket of wilderness. Here, in the folds of time, lie the remnants of all that was—lost tales of the oven surge.
Through the whispers of yeast and the scent of ancient grains, we wander. Each step echoes the steps of ancestors, kneading destinies in flour-coated allegories of the past. The crust breaks, revealing stories of hands touched by decay, rebirthing in warmth and fracture.
Lurking within, a baker's ghost watches, awaiting the renewal of crumbled dreams. Below the surface, time churns, and its aroma beckons. The wilderness opens, a door of porous bread leading to elysian fields of ceaseless dough. Wonder, wonder, oh land of time's folding.
The wilderness beckons you to wander; embrace the final loaves, the burnt symbols of existence. For here in the entropy, choirs of cinnamon and nutmeg sing, guiding you to mystic sow and other tales of labor and liberation.