The Wistful Dinner
The firelight dances in your eyes, a frantic, golden rhythm that mirrors the beating of your own heart, which has not slowed since the first shadow detached itself from the wall. You are seated at the long oak table, the wood scarred by centuries of knives and spilled wine, your hands resting on the polished surface, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor yourself to the solid world. The feast...
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