The Wistful Incense
The air in the Whitmore estate did not merely stagnate; it fermented, a thick, viscous suspension of damp wool, aged mahogany, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that had settled into the grain of the floorboards over the past three decades, and in the center of this oppressive atmosphere sat Arthur, his hands trembling not from the cold that seeped up through the cellar stones but from the...
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