The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-17 18:25:17 -

The Wistful Ashes

The glass was cold. I pressed my thumb against the rim, feeling the chill seep into the bone. It was a simple tumbler, heavy and clear, sitting on a table made of polished mahogany. In the center of the room, the air hummed with the low vibration of the fans. They were silent. No one was moving. I looked at the door. It was locked. I had locked it. I had checked it three times. Once with my...

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