The Wistful Letter
The fog that rolled in from the moors did not merely obscure the world; it unmade it, dissolving the sharp edges of the stone cottages and the gnarled oaks into a single, suffocating grey mass that pressed against the windows of the Blackthorn Manor like a living thing seeking entry, and within this damp, silent expanse, Thomas Ashworth stood before the ancient mirror, his fingers trembling not...
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