The Letters from 1893
The iron box smelled of damp paper and something faintly sweet, like dried lavender. Silas Morrow found it beneath a stack of water-damaged novels at a stall on Bleecker Street, half-hidden under a copy of Whitman that had seen better decades. The box itself was unremarkable—rust along the hinges, a faded label that read simply E.O.C.—but when he pried it open, the letters inside stopped him...
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