The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-22 05:48:18 -

The mist does not lift. It thickens. You stand at the edge of the black pine forest, the bark slick under your fingers like wet skin. The air smells of rot and old iron. You are not here to hunt. You are here to be hunted. Or perhaps, to be eaten. The distinction has blurred in the damp dark. You remember the village below. The thatch roofs, gray as crows’ wings. The silence there was not...

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