The dream was always the same. A white room. A single chair. And on the desk, a letter sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
Elise woke with a gasp. The air in her apartment was thick and cold. It was November in Chicago. The wind pressed against the windowpane like a hungry ghost. She sat up. Her head throbbed. The fever had not left her. It had been there for three days now. A low,...
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