The Wistful Dinner
The Wistful Dinner The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, folded so finely it seemed the paper itself had been taught restraint. Clara Whitmore turned it between her fingers—cream stock, embossed letters, a date three weeks hence—and felt the peculiar vertigo of something from the past refusing to remain buried. It was unsigned, but the handwriting was unmistakable: the looping, impatient...
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