The Wistful Dinner
The cold in the cellar of the Ashworth apothecary was not merely a temperature but a physical weight, a damp, gray hand pressing against your lungs as you huddled in the shadows beneath the stairwell, your breath misting in the stale air that smelled of mildew, dried lavender, and the metallic tang of fear. You are Elias, twelve years old and trembling, your fingers wrapped around a small,...
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