The Golden Scar
The ivy did not merely climb the grey limestone of the Ashworth estate; it consumed it, a slow, green tide that swallowed the mortar, the windowsills, and finally the very breath of the house, a living tapestry of emerald and shadow that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat older than the stone itself. Within the high-ceilinged library, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp paper and...
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