The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-20 17:21:39 -

The Wistful Ashes

The dream was a table. Long. White cloth. Stretched tight over the bones of the room. Margaret sat at the head. She did not know she was dreaming until the food arrived. It came in bowls. Clay. Heavy. The steam rose in spirals, thin as smoke, sharp as needles. It smelled of iron. Of copper. Of the blood under the nails. She looked down. The bowl was empty. Or rather, it was full of nothing. A...

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