The Wistful Letter
The house stood on the edge of the cliff like a bruise on the skin of the landscape, its white stucco peeling away in long, flaking strips that revealed the dark, rotting wood beneath, a slow hemorrhage of decay that had been accelerating for thirty years since the patriarch’s death, and within its suffocating silence, Elias Thorne stood motionless in the center of the grand foyer, his heavy...
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