The Wistful Dinner
The floorboards of the Ashworth manor had begun to weep a black, viscous fluid that smelled of turned earth and old iron, and you stood in the center of the parlor, your hands trembling not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the debt that bound your husband’s soul to the hungry ground below. You were thirty-two, a widow in a house that was slowly being digested by the land itself,...
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