The Wistful Dinner
You stand before the heavy oak doors of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, the iron handle cold against your palm, slick with the condensation of a fog that has not lifted since dawn, and you know with a certainty that settles deep in your marrow, colder than the stone floor beneath your boots, that you have made a terrible mistake by coming here, yet you cannot turn back because the weight of what you...
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