The Wistful Letter
The fog did not merely settle over the valley of Ashcroft; it exhaled. It rose from the riverbed in thick, gelatinous waves, swallowing the stone cottages and the ancient yews until the world was reduced to a pale, breathless void. Elias Thorne stood on the threshold of his modest manor, a place of decaying grandeur where the wallpaper peeled like dead skin and the air tasted of damp limestone...
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