The Wistful Dinner
The dream began with the sound of shattering, not the sharp crack of porcelain or the dull thud of wood, but a high-pitched, crystalline scream that seemed to originate from the marrow of Margaret’s own bones. She stood in the center of the Grand Hall of the Sterling Institute, a space so vast and echoing that her own breathing sounded like a gale force wind tearing through the rafters. The...
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