The Wistful Dinner
Act I Galina Smirnov’s boots struck the wet cobblestones of the courtyard with a rhythmic thud, the sound swallowed by the thick, yellow fog that hung low over the Neva. She clutched the silver button in her left hand, its surface cold and smooth against her palm, while her right hand gripped the strap of her satchel, which held the sealed file that had ended her father’s life. The button...
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