The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-17 15:00:05 -

The frost had taken the orchard before the snow did, a slow and silent claiming that turned the apples into hard, bitter jewels hanging from branches stripped of all their green life. I remember the way the air tasted that winter, thin and metallic, like biting down on a coin, and I remember that my father, Thomas, did not speak much, but he spoke with a weight that settled in the floorboards...

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