The Wistful Crossroads
The silence in the house was not empty, but thick, a physical substance that pressed against the eardrums of Colonel Elias Thorne as he sat in the high-backed chair by the dying fire. The manor, a sprawling Victorian relic perched on the jagged cliffs of the Cornish coast, groaned under the weight of the storm outside, a sound that mimicked the settling of old bones. Elias held the map in his...
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