The Wistful Letter
The house had always smelled of wet wool and stale wood, a scent that settled into the pores of anyone who lingered too long in the lower halls, and for Thomas, standing now at the threshold of the master bedroom with the iron key cold and heavy in his sweating palm, the air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against his eardrums with a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the marrow of his...
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