The Wistful Dinner
The memory of the dust is sharper than the memory of the air, and Morag Sempill knows that now, standing on the wet cobbles of the close, that the smell of the basement has permanently settled into her pores like the grit of the sawmill she left behind twelve years ago. She recalls the specific quality of the silence in that room, a heavy, suspended thing that pressed against her eardrums,...
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