The Wistful Dinner
The invoice lay on the scarred oak table, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the workshop. Elias Thorne read the sum for the third time, his eyes tracing the ink of the debt that bound his family’s name to the debtors’ prison. Across from him, his father, Arthur, sat in the high-backed chair, his hands folded in his lap, silent as a stopped pendulum. The room smelled of machine oil...
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