The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-21 20:14:44 -

The soup was cold. It sat in the center of the steel tray, a grey, opaque pool that had congealed into a single, solid disc. It looked like a stone. It looked like an eye. Arthur held the tray with both hands. His knuckles were white. He was a man of thirty-two years, or perhaps thirty-four, time had become a slippery thing in the sterile, humming corridors of St. Jude’s Medical Center. He wore...

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