The Wistful Dinner
The roast duck sits in the center of the table, its skin lacquered in a glaze of amber honey and dark juniper berries, looking less like a meal and more like a trophy, a silent, golden sentinel presiding over the chaos of the household, while you, Arthur, sit at the head of the long oak table with your hands folded so tightly your knuckles turn the color of old bone, your eyes fixed on the bird...
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