The Wistful Dinner
The rain does not fall so much as it is poured from the sky, a cold, indifferent deluge that soaks into the very mortar of the old stone house, turning the air thick with the scent of wet dust and decay, and you stand in the center of the great hall, watching the water seep through the cracks in the ceiling, each drop a small, dark hammer striking the exposed beams that hold up the weight of...
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