The Wistful Dinner
The brass key in your hand is cold, heavier than it has any right to be, its teeth worn smooth by the friction of five years of neglect. You stand before the iron gates of St. Jude’s Orphanage in Oakhaven, the steam from the nearby textile mills curling around your ankles like the grey hair of an old man. It is 1904, and the air tastes of coal dust and wet slate. You are Elara Vance,...
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