The Wistful Silence
The roast lamb was falling apart on the bone, a tender, pink ruin in the center of the silver platter. It sat under a dome of heat, steaming gently into the crystal glasses that lined the table like a row of silent sentinels. Margaret held her fork with a white-knuckled grip, the tines digging into the soft meat. She didn’t eat. She just watched the steam rise, a ghostly veil that obscured the...
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