The Wistful Saga
"Pour another, Arthur. The man’s earned it." I did not pour. I stood by the sideboard, my hand resting on the crystal decanter, feeling the cold glass bite into my palm. The room smelled of roasted duck and stale tobacco, the air thick with the humidity of forty bodies sweating in their best suits. It was November, 1912, and the town of Oakhaven was celebrating the expansion of Vane Mill. I was...
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