The Wistful Letter
The letter lay upon the damp stone floor of the cellar, its parchment yellowing like the skin of a man who has forgotten how to breathe, and it was here, in this subterranean tomb of the old city where the walls wept with the sweat of centuries, that Silas Vane, the Warden of the North Gate, found his hands trembling not from the biting cold that seeped through his woolen doublet but from the...
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