The Wistful Dinner
The stone had already begun to close around Eugene Gaspard’s wrist before he realized the air had turned to dust, a suffocating, dry heat that pressed against his lungs like a wet wool blanket. He remembered the interview, the way the magistrate’s smile had split the room in two, and how the mirror in the corner had not reflected the man in the chair but a rotting, hollow thing, a skull...
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