The Wistful Grid
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax that had cracked into jagged shards, resembling the fractured glass of the mirror you had been forbidden to look into for three years. You sat in the library of the manor, the air thick with the scent of dust and decaying oak, and broke the seal. The parchment within was brittle, brittle as the bones of your mother, who had died while you were...
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