The Wistful Letter
The blood was not red, but a thick, viscous umber, like wet earth dragged across a marble floor. You watched it spread from beneath the door of the nursery, a slow, deliberate creep that defied gravity. Your hand trembled as you pressed the cold brass key into the lock. The mechanism groaned, a sound that seemed too loud for the silence of the house, a shriek of metal against metal that echoed...
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