The Wistful Asylum
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of lavender and old dust. I held it in my hands, the wax seal unbroken, and felt the weight of it settle into my bones, a physical pressure that made my breath shallow. It was from the estate of my late father, the man who had built our family’s fortune on the back of a single, peculiar invention: the ability...
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