The Wistful Letter
The ink was not merely black, but a viscous, living darkness that seemed to pull the light out of the air as it touched the parchment, a substance that held the weight of centuries within its viscosity, smelling faintly of iron and dried lavender, a scent that Margaret Holloway recognized with a sudden, violent jolt of memory that felt less like recollection and more like a physical blow to the...
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