The Wistful Saga

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2026-08-18 05:43:25 -

The Wistful Saga

The table groaned under the weight of the feast. Roast goose. Mince pies. Cider that smelled of autumn rot. My hands shook. I held the knife tight. The wood handle was slick with sweat. "You look pale, Thomas," my father said. He did not look up from his plate. His eyes were closed. He chewed. Slowly. "I am fine, Father." My voice cracked. A small, ugly sound. The room went quiet. The candles...

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