The Wistful Skyline
The roast is dry. You know it’s dry before you even cut into it, a fact that hangs in the humid air of the dining room like a heavy curtain. The table is set for twelve, though only six of us are here. The rest are gone, not dead, but vanished into the grey static of the war that has been bleeding into the city for three days now. We are eating in the middle of a siege, but we are eating with...
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