The Wistful Dinner
The lamp flickered, casting a long, jagged shadow across the table where the plate sat untouched, the cold tea in the cup forming a thin skin of ice. Elias Thorne sat in the chair opposite it, his hands folded in his lap, fingers gnarled and stained with the permanent yellow of machine oil that no amount of scrubbing could lift. He stared at the empty space, where the air seemed to thicken and...
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