The Faded Paradox
The fire started in the chimney of the east wing and ate through the lintel with a hunger that seemed personal, as if the house itself had developed a grudge against its own bones. I remember the smell first, not the heat, that thick, sulfurous tang of burning varnish and old paper that filled the corridors of Blackwood Manor and turned the air into something you could taste on the back of your...
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