The Wistful Letter
The seal had been broken for three days, yet the ink on the parchment remained stubbornly fresh, a dark, viscous stain that seemed to pulse with a vitality entirely at odds with the decaying grandeur of the Whitmore estate. Elara stood in the center of the ballroom, where the chandeliers hung like skeletal hands from the vaulted ceiling, their crystal pendants catching the weak afternoon light...
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