The Wistful Letter
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a sound. It was a low, guttural groan that seemed to rise from the very foundations of the St. Jude’s Archive, a building that had stood silent on the hillside for a century. Dr. Arthur Penhaligon was sitting at his desk in the deepest, most windowless room of the basement, the air thick with the scent of foxed paper and dry dust. He was a man who...
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