The Wistful Saga
The letter sat on the table, the paper yellowed like old skin, the ink faded to a bruised purple. Elias held it in his left hand, the right clenched into a fist that trembled against the rough wood of the table. Outside, the wind howled through the pines, a low, mournful sound that seemed to come from the earth itself. He had not slept in three days. The weight of the words pressed against his...
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