The Wistful Letter
The iron gates of Blackwood Manor did not creak; they groaned, a low, tectonic shudder that vibrated through the cobblestones and up into the soles of Alder Thorne’s boots. He stood in the courtyard, his hands wrapped around the rough-hewn wooden box, feeling the frantic, bird-like flutter of the wings inside. The air was thick with the scent of rotting lilies and old rain, a perfume that...
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