The Wistful Dinner
The mist curled around the iron stove, cold and white as a shroud. Elias Thorne watched it coil, his breath fogging the air in the small, drafty cottage. He was forty-two, and his hands shook, not from the chill, but from the debt that sat on his chest like a stone. Martha had been dead for six months, but the grave remained unpaid, a hole in the earth that Mr. Vane insisted was a violation of...
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