The Faded Attic
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey, suspended mist that clung to the stone walls of the manor, turning the very air into a damp, breathing thing. I sat alone in the library, the room heavy with the scent of decaying leather and the faint, metallic tang of old ink, watching the watertrace its slow, indifferent paths down the leaded glass. My hands, wrapped around a cup of tea...
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