The Wistful Dinner
The rain fell hard against the slate roof of the farmhouse, a steady, gray drumbeat that masked the sound of the world outside. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool and old wood. Margaret sat at the head of the table. Her hands were still. They lay flat on the scarred oak, fingers spread wide, palms up, as if waiting to catch something that would never fall. Her brother,...
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