The Wistful Dinner
The rain had been falling on the roof of the manor for three days, a persistent, gray drumming that seemed to seep into the very bones of the house, a house that had once been a beacon of light for the valley but now stood as a hollow shell, waiting for the final breath of its last occupant. I stood in the hallway, my hand resting on the cold brass of the banister, feeling the tremor in my own...
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