The Wistful Letter
The cellar smelled of wet rot and copper. It was a thick, clinging scent that coated the back of Thomas’s throat, making every breath feel like a violation. He stood in the center of the stone floor, his boots sinking slightly into the mud that had seeped through the cracks. Above him, the heavy oak beams of the estate’s foundation groaned under the weight of the centuries, a sound that was not...
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