The Wistful Dinner
The rain has been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurs the edges of the world and turns the cobblestones of the old market square into slick, dark mirrors that reflect nothing but the low, bruised sky above. You are standing in the doorway of your workshop, a place that smells of wet wool, old varnish, and the metallic tang of iron filings, watching the water run in...
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