The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-19 15:43:23 -

The air in the crypt smelled of damp stone and old, dried blood, a scent that Margaret Holloway had come to associate with the scent of her own skin. She stood before the mirror, which was not a mirror but a slab of polished obsidian set into the wall, reflecting a version of herself that seemed slightly out of focus, as if she were seen through a layer of stagnant water. "You wear the weight...

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