The Wistful Silence
The house in the English countryside did not sleep. It listened. Arthur Pemberton stood in the library, his breath held in the stale, dusty air. The walls were lined with leather-bound volumes, their spines cracked like dry earth. He was a scholar of obscure dialects, a man who had spent forty years decoding the silent languages of the dead. Now, he sought the voice of a living ghost. On the...
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