The Last Healing
Paris in 1922 was a city of ghosts. Not the kind that rattled chains and moaned in attics, but the quieter kind—the ones that walked the boulevards in tailored coats and smoked Gauloises, the ones that sat in cafés and ordered absinthe and stared into the middle distance with eyes that had seen too much. Thomas Blackwood was one of those ghosts, though he didn't know it yet. He had returned...
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