The Pale Letter
The letter in your hand is warm. Not from the sun, which is hidden behind a thick, industrial haze, but from within. It pulses against your palm like a second heartbeat, a rhythmic thumping that vibrates up your wrist and into the bone of your forearm. You are standing in the courtyard of the Ashworth Estate, a place that should not exist, yet here it is, suspended in a fog that smells of...
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