The Wistful Dinner
The storm did not break; it shattered the windowpane of the high-rise office with a sound like a bone snapping, and the cold, wet wind that rushed in carried the scent of ozone and old, dried blood, forcing the rain to dance in spirals across the polished floor where the rain had been for forty years, a steady, relentless drumming against the glass that had long since ceased to be a barrier and...
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