The Wistful Dinner
The receipt for the ink sticks sat on the table, a stark rectangle of cream paper against the dark wood, listing three items for a sum that would have bought a week’s rent in the old country. You read the total twice, your eyes tracing the digits until they blurred, then you signed your name, Elias Thorne, in a hand that was less a signature than a plea for continued existence. The scent of the...
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