The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-20 09:20:11 -

The fire took the roof. It took the beams. It took the silence. I sat in the ash. The heat was a physical weight. It pressed against my skin. It smelled of pine and rot. I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I wore the coat. It was red. It was heavy. It was mine. I am a prisoner. Not of stone. Not of iron. But of memory. The court had judged me. The judgment was clear. I had stolen the...

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