The Wistful Dinner
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the day the frost had begun to eat into the edges of the garden, transforming the hydrangeas into brittle skeletons that clattered against the windowpane with a dry, skeletal rattle. Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose hands were mapped with the fine, permanent scars of a lifetime spent handling delicate porcelain glazes and precise kiln temperatures, read the...
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