The Wistful Dinner
You are standing in the kitchen of the old mill house, the one your mother built with her own hands and your father’s sweat, and the air is thick with the smell of boiled wool and damp stone, a scent that has permeated the walls so deeply that it seems to breathe against your skin. Your hands are raw, the skin split and bleeding into the flour, because you have been kneading the dough for the...
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