The Last Breath of Clara
The rain in London did not fall; it lingered, a grey shroud that clung to the soot-stained bricks of the Blackwood Estate. Julian stood in the library, the air thick with the scent of decaying parchment and damp wool. He was a man of logic, a scholar of the archives, yet the leather-bound journal in his hands felt like a living thing, pulsing with a secret that defied his rationality. The entry...
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