The Wistful Dinner
The iron plate was cold in my hands, heavier than it had been when I first carried it from the market in Ypres, a slab of dark, rusted metal that seemed to absorb the light around it rather than reflect it, and I stood in the center of the hall with the door still open to the winter wind, letting the cold bite into my cheeks while the guests waited in the shadows of the long table, their faces...
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