The Wistful Dinner

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2026-08-23 07:19:26 -

The locket was cold. Not cold like silver left in a drafty room, but cold like the inside of a grave. I found it in the attic, tucked between the rotting slats of the floorboards, wrapped in a scrap of my sister’s old blue silk. Margaret had been dead for three years, taken by the fever that swept through the lower districts, but this object felt heavy in my palm, denser than metal should be....

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