The Wistful Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, industrial drumming against the slate roof of the Blackwood estate that sounded less like weather and more like the collective sigh of the dead. I stood in the center of the grand hall, my boots heavy with mud and blood, my breath tearing at the back of my throat in ragged, wet gasps. The air here was thick, cloying, smelling of wet wool,...
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