The Wistful Dinner
The rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a thick, gelatinous curtain of grey that sealed the valley and turned the world into a wet, breathing lung where the air tasted of iron and rotting orchids, and I stood there in the mud, my boots sinking into the peat with a suction that felt like the earth itself was trying to pull me down into its dark, hungry belly, watching the last of the...
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