The Wistful Dinner
The road to Ashworth Hall is not a path so much as a suggestion of travel, a grey ribbon of mud and stone that winds through the heath until the mist swallows it. You walk. Your boots are heavy, caked in the damp earth of the moors, and the air tastes of iron and old rain. You carry the box. It is small, no larger than a loaf of bread, wrapped in oilcloth that has stiffened with age and sweat....
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