The Wistful Saga
The rain did not fall so much as it was delivered, a heavy, industrial gray sludge that smeared the windows of the Whitmore estate until the world outside became a blurred, weeping stain. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old paper, a scent that Eleanor Whitmore had come to associate with the slow, inevitable decay of everything she loved. She stood before the grand...
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