The Wistful Dinner
The rain taps a steady rhythm against the leaded glass. You are seated at the head of the table. The mahogany is cold. Your hands are still. Across from you sits Julian. He looks tired. His uniform is immaculate, but the shoulders seem to slump under a weight that does not exist. He does not look at you. He looks at the soup. The steam curls up, a ghost escaping the bowl. "Is it good?" he...
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