The Wistful Dinner
The fog sits heavy on the valley floor. It smells of wet stone and old blood. You are here. You are not home. The house is cold. The walls breathe. You remember the map. You drew it years ago. The ink is faded. The lines are wrong. You are an exile. You crossed the sea. You left the village. You left the well. Now you return. The town is small. The streets are narrow. The people watch you....
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