The Wistful Letter
The cellar was cold. It smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias stood in the center of the room, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. He was a man of few words. He preferred the silence of the archive to the noise of the hall. But tonight, the silence was broken. A sound came from the dark. It was not a footstep. It was a scratch. Like a fingernail on slate. Like a bone against a...
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