The Wistful Mountain
The ink is still wet on the parchment, a dark, viscous stain that bleeds into the fiber of the paper like a wound refusing to close. You press your thumb against the seal, holding the wax firm, knowing that the act of sealing this letter is an act of severing. The room is cold, the kind of deep, bone-chilling cold that settles into the joints of the old manor, a silence so profound it seems to...
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