The Wistful Dinner
The road to the Abbey is long. You walk it alone. The mist rises from the valley floor, thick and white, swallowing the world. It is a strange season. The leaves have not fallen. They hang in the air, suspended, as if time itself has held its breath. You are a scholar of the old texts. You know the weight of words. You know that language can build walls or burn them down. But here, in the gray...
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