The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-20 09:28:57 -

The banquet hall smelled of roasting boar and rot. It was a thick, cloying scent. It hung low. It pressed against the skin. Margot stood by the hearth. She wore her mother’s dress. The fabric was silk. It was thin. It was grey. It had been worn for forty years. It was frayed at the hem. It was stiff with age. It was her only treasure. It was her mother’s last breath. It was her mother’s first...

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