The Wistful Dinner
The ink is not yet dry on the ledger, a black smear that looks too much like a bruise against the cream of the paper. You hold your breath, the air in the study thick with the scent of ozone and old dust, the heavy mahogany desk looming before you like a coffin lid. Outside, the London fog presses against the windowpanes, a grey wall that has no doors, sealing the room in a silence that feels...
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