The Wistful Dinner
The letter lay on the workbench, its seal broken, the ink still wet enough to smear if one were careless. It was from the parish office, a form regarding the structural integrity of Blackwood Manor, specifically the east tower where I had spent the last decade restoring the fresco of St. Jude. The clerk’s handwriting was precise, bureaucratic, and utterly indifferent to the fact that my hands...
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