The small battery-operated telegraph receiver in the center of the wooden table did not rattle with the frantic, erratic rhythm of a failing market line. It spoke in measured, mechanical strokes—three deliberate beats, a pause, and then a sequence of precise, high-frequency strikes that carried the undeniable acoustic signature of an imperial-grade military transmitter.
In the cramped, dirt-walled basement beneath the bakery, the air was close, heavy with the scent of rising yeast from the floor above, mixed with the sharp, acidic tang of the wet linen rags wrapped around Sarah's burned fingers. The single tallow candle on the table flickered wildly as the floorboards overhead groaned under the weight of the early morning bakers beginning their shifts.
