The Wistful Dinner
The door is locked. It has been locked for six years. You sit in the chair, the one that creaks if you shift your weight to the left. You do not shift. You are a soldier in a fortress of your own making. The walls are concrete, cold to the touch, stained with the damp breath of the earth outside. You are not in a cell. You are in a room. The distinction matters. A cell is for the guilty. A room...
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