The Wistful Dinner
The date is the fourteenth of November, 1904, and the ink has already begun to bleed into the paper, spreading like a bruise across the page as I struggle to recall the precise hour I woke. I am lying on the cold flagstones of the observatory, the air thick with the acrid scent of ash and wet brick, my hands stained black with soot that I did not light, a fire that seemed to consume itself in...
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