The Distant Journey
The roast is pink in the center, a wound of red meat glistening under the heat lamps, and the air in the dining room smells of rosemary, rendered fat, and the heavy, metallic tang of old iron. You sit at the head of the long oak table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, fingers pale and thin as reeds, waiting for the family to gather. The house is silent, a vast and breathing thing, its...
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