The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-18 05:06:17 -

The soup was cold. Margaret stirred the broth. The spoon scraped the bottom of the ceramic bowl. A faint hiss rose from the steam. It smelled of thyme and old iron. Across the table, Silas watched her. His eyes were dark. They held no pity. They held only the weight of the ledger. "You are late," he said. His voice was low. It was the voice of a man who owned the air in the room. "I was...

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