The Wistful Dinner
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, industrial drumming against the soot-blackened windows of the Whitmore Estate that turned the world outside into a blurred, grey smear of mud and shadow. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool, stale coal dust, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep up from the floorboards. Silas sat at the head of the long...
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