The Wistful Dinner
The orchids in the conservatory were dying, not from neglect, but from a kind of aggressive, silent overgrowth, their pale, fleshy petals unfurling in the humid dark like the hands of drowning men reaching for a shore that had vanished years ago. Margaret Holloway stood before the glass panes, her reflection a ghostly smudge against the night, watching the white blooms stretch toward the...
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