The Wistful Letter
The cellar beneath the Whitmore estate was not merely a storage space, but a throat of stone that swallowed the light of the upper floors, a place where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of forgotten things. Here, in the gloom that pressed against the walls like a living thing, Elias sat with his back against the cold brick, his hands resting on the object...
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