The Wistful Dinner
The rain in the valley has not stopped for eleven days, and the cellar door is swollen shut with the dampness, a fact that I note with the precise, detached horror of a man who has spent forty years cataloguing the slow decay of his own life. I am Elias Thorne, once a magistrate of some repute in the county, now a prisoner of the very estate I inherited, and I write this not as a confession but...
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