The Wistful Dinner
The fog does not lift. It thickens. You stand before the gate. Iron. Black. Cold. Beyond it, the village. Stone. Slate. Rain. You are not from here. You know this. Your bones know it. The air is wrong. Too wet. Too still. The gate creaks. You push. It opens. Inside, the street is empty. No dogs. No birds. No children. Only the mist. You walk. Your boots sink into the mud. Soft. Yielding. A...
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