The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-20 14:21:27 -

The feast was a lie. We sat at a table long enough to hold the dead, the living, and the ghosts who refused to leave. The candles burned low, their flames trembling in a draft that did not come from any window. I watched my daughter, Elara, across the mahogany. She was seven. She ate the roasted pheasant with a solemnity that belied her age. She did not look at me. She looked at the space where...

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