The Wistful Letter
The iron chest in the library did not rust, nor did it fade, even as the tapestries around it grew thin as spider silk and the stone walls wept with the damp of a century’s neglect. You knew it was waiting. It had waited for you since the day you were born, though you did not know its name then, only the cold weight of it in your dreams, a block of obsidian in a sea of light. You are a scholar...
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