The Wistful Dinner
The blood was not red but a thick, viscous black that smelled of iron and old rain as it seeped through the white linen of my sleeve, a stain that spread with a slow, deliberate cruelty across the fabric that had been washed and starched by Mrs. Gable for three generations. I stood in the center of the hall, the air heavy with the scent of burning beeswax and the faint, sweet decay of the...
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