The Pale Path
The ink was still wet when I first noticed the tremor in my hand, a subtle, rhythmic shudder that betrayed the magnitude of the task before me. I sat in the library of the Ashworth estate, a room that smelled of cedar, dust, and the slow decay of unspoken grief, and I stared at the document spread across the mahogany desk. It was a simple letter, written in the elegant, slanted script of...
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