The Faded Frequency
The ink had not yet dried on the letter, a dark and viscous smear that seemed to bleed into the parchment like a wound that refused to close, when the first of the crows arrived, settling upon the sill with a silence so profound it felt less like a sound and more like a vacuum, a void that sucked the warmth from the stone walls of the isolated watchtower where Margaret Holloway sat, her fingers...
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