The Wistful Dinner
The stone of the manor does not sleep, you understand this as you run your hand along the cold, damp wall of the cellar, the roughness of the ancient mortar grinding against your palm like a whisper that has been waiting for centuries to be heard. You are not supposed to be here, not at this hour, not with the rain lashing against the high, narrow windows of the great house in a rhythm that...
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