The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-20 15:59:54 -

The soup was cold. It had been sitting in the ceramic bowl for an hour, a skin of grease forming on the surface like a second, translucent skin. Margaret stared at it. The smell was faint now, just a ghost of thyme and onion. She did not eat. She could not. The spoon lay across the rim, a small, white bone. Outside, the wind moved through the pines, a low, continuous moan that sounded less like...

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