The Faded Chronicle
The hall of the Whitmore estate was not merely decorated; it was buried. Under the weight of three centuries of accumulated silence, the air tasted of dust and dried lavender. It was a place where time did not pass so much as it pooled, stagnant and deep. In the center of the drawing room, where the chandelier cast a fractured, diamond-like glow upon the floorboards, stood Arthur Pendelton. He...
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