The Wistful Voyage
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence so absolute it seemed to crack the very mortar of the walls, a vacuum into which the heat rushed like a flood into a breached dam, consuming the oak beams and the heavy velvet drapes of the parlor in a single, violent exhalation that turned the night sky above the Whitmore estate into a bruised purple before the first alarm bell even...
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