The Wistful Dinner
The chime grinds, a sound like a man clearing his throat in the dark, and Giuseppe Sartori watches the brass gears shudder under the weight of the fog pressing against the telegraph office windows. He is not a man of high station, but the debt on his forehead is heavy, rolled over five times, a weight that sits on his neck like a yoke of wet iron. The kerosene is gone, the night is long, and...
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