The Wistful Dinner
The wind did not blow through the archway of Thorne Hall; it whispered. It moved with the specific, dry friction of paper sliding over wood, a sound that Elias Thorne had spent forty years learning to ignore, though his hands trembled as he mixed the final bucket of mortar. He was a mason of the old school, a man who believed that a house was a body and a debt was a sickness, and today the...
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