The Wistful Mirror
The letter in your hand is heavy, not with ink, but with the weight of a silence that has lasted forty years. You are sitting at the edge of the stone hearth in the drafty kitchen of the manor house, the one you have inherited along with the debt and the damp. Outside, the rain beats against the leaded glass with a rhythmic, percussive violence that mirrors the pounding in your temples. You are...
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