The Pale Letter
The old manor of Housewick stood like a broken tooth against the grey, weeping sky, its stone walls sweating with the dampness of centuries, a place where the air itself seemed to have grown thick and viscous with the unspoken griefs of those who had lived and died within its cold embrace. Elias Thorne, a man whose mind was a vast, intricate library of forgotten languages and whose soul was a...
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