The Wistful Dinner
The bell tolls midnight, a sound like a bone breaking in the dark. You wake not to the cry of children or the crash of falling masonry, but to the silence that follows. It is a heavy, velvet silence, thick with the scent of ozone and old blood. In the cellar, beneath the cobbles of your workshop, the air is cold enough to freeze breath. You are a glassblower, a craftsman of fragile light and...
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