The Wistful Dinner

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 00:12:52 -

The rain hit the cobblestones like a thousand small, cold hands. I stood by the window of the university library, watching the city bleed into the dusk. It was 1894, or so it seemed to feel. The air smelled of wet wool and old paper. I held the scarf. It was silk, midnight blue, frayed at the edges. It had belonged to Elias. Elias was gone. Not dead, not yet, but gone in the way that matters....

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