The Wistful Dinner
The hand of Elias Thorne moved with the precise, mechanical rhythm of a man who had spent twenty years holding a rifle steady, his fingers closing around the cold iron of the bedside table, the metal biting into the skin of his palm as he woke from the dream of the burning chapel, the heat of the flames still ghosting across his retinas even though the room was plunged into a damp, biting cold...
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