The Wistful Dinner
The porcelain bowl sat upon the scarred oak table, a vessel of such delicate, trembling whiteness that it seemed less like an object of the material world and more like a shard of frozen moonlight, suspended in the heavy, sulfurous air of the cellar, where the shadows did not merely fall but breathed, expanding and contracting with a rhythmic, wet pulse that mimicked the slow, agonizing beat of...
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