The Wistful Dinner
The fog does not rise from the river; it descends from the sky, a thick, gray wool that smothers the cobblestones of Whitmore Lane until the world is nothing but a hollow, breathing chest of air. You are standing on the threshold of your shop, the bell above the door swinging in a wind that has no source, its iron tongue striking the frame with a rhythm that feels less like a chime and more...
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