The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-20 03:50:30 -

The chapel was a mouth. A stone throat. It swallowed light and spit out silence. Elara stood in the nave. The floor was cold. Her boots were wet. Mud from the road. Mud from the war. It smelled of iron and rot. She looked up. The vaulted ceiling was a net of cracks. Fractures ran like veins. Like rivers on a map. A map of a country that no longer existed. She had come to pray. Or perhaps to...

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