The Wistful Letter
The bell above the door did not chime; it groaned, a low, mournful rasp that seemed to scrape against the very marrow of my bones. I stood in the center of the Great Hall of the Ashworth Institute, a young woman of twenty, yet my eyes held the wide, unblinking terror of a child who has seen the dark too clearly. My hands trembled, not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards, but from...
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