The Wistful Dinner
The soup was cold, a fact that seemed to hang in the air of the small, cramped kitchen like a heavy fog, and Maren stood by the sink, staring into the bowl where a single, pale feather had drifted to the surface, floating with a terrible, indifferent grace that made her hands tremble as she held the spoon, because she knew, with the bone-deep certainty that had defined her life in this town for...
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