The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-19 14:00:07 -

The wind does not howl here. It whispers. It threads its cold fingers through the gaps in the lath, through the rot of the eaves, through the very marrow of the house. You feel it before you see it. A shiver down the spine. A tightening in the jaw. You are not afraid. You are tired. Being tired is a different kind of fear. It is the fear of the end. You stand in the kitchen. The floorboards...

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