The Wistful Silence

added blog Literature

2026-08-24 09:01:23 -

The silver tongs in my hand were cold, slick with the grease of the roasted pheasant, and I found myself unable to lift them from the bone, the metal sliding against the cartilage with a friction that sounded like a whisper in the empty hall. The banquet was a thing of decayed grandeur, the tablecloth stained with wine and time, the candles guttering in a draft that seemed to come from nowhere...

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