The letter arrived without a postmark, sealed with black wax and addressed in a hand so elegant it seemed to curve like music.
Arthur Winterborne read it by the light of a single candle in his Chelsea garret, the ink shimmering on the cream-colored paper as though the words themselves were painted rather than written. It came from a man named Victor Russell, who claimed to have discovered something extraordinary in Arthur's poetry—something buried beneath the grief, something that required the proper environment to be...
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