The Wistful Letter
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a smell, a thick and cloying scent of sulfur and burnt hair that seeped through the oak paneling of the study before the first ember kissed the paper. Elias Thorne sat at his mahogany desk, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, terrible weight of the ink-stained quill in his grip. He had been writing for three days. Three days...
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