The Wistful Ashes
The collapse of the eastern wing was not an explosion, but a surrender, a long, groaning exhale of rotting timber and shattered glass that seemed to have waited a century for the precise moment when Margaret’s breath would catch in her throat. She stood in the center of the parlor, a room that had once been the heart of the Whitmore estate, now reduced to a skeleton of dust and drifting ash....
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