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Summary
There is something cracking in Hannibal’s chest, something young and unarmored. He wonders where it came from, how it emerged, when it took residence in his throat– he did not wonder what was strangling it.
He paused, taking another sip of his wine. The empty chair across from him fills his office, Will’s absence visceral and unavoidable.
The wine is a vintage, a delightful Italian Bordeaux he saved for cold nights.
It tastes like ash.