The Wistful Dinner
The road to the village of Oakhaven was not merely a path of dirt and stone but a wound in the earth, deepening as it neared the ancient manor house that stood isolated on the hill, a structure of weathered grey slate and timber that seemed to breathe with the dampness of the surrounding moorland, and I walked it with the heavy, deliberate steps of a man who has long since ceased to fight...
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