The Wistful Dinner
The iron pot sits on the hearth, black with age and soot, its rim worn smooth by the hands of three generations of women who stood where you now stand, stirring the same dark, heavy stew that smells of boiled root vegetables and the damp, earthen breath of the cellar. You are Thomas, a man whose hands are stained permanently with the tannin of the oak vats and the grease of the chandler’s shop,...
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