The Wistful Dinner
You wake in the blue hour of the morning, the kind of darkness that does not truly end but merely shifts its hue, settling into a bruised purple that presses against the glass of the windowpane where the frost has formed in intricate, fern-like patterns that resemble the skeletal fingers of the dead reaching out for the warmth of the living. Your body is a map of aches, a topography of pain...
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