The Wistful Dinner
The rain falls in sheets of gray iron. It beats against the high, arched windows of the keep. You stand by the hearth. The fire is low. It hisses and pops. It is not warm. You feel the cold in your bones. It is a deep, structural cold. It lives in the marrow. You look at your hands. They are large. They are rough. The knuckles are swollen. The skin is cracked. You turn them over. The palm of...
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