The Distant Ghost
The fire took the west wing in the night. I woke to the smell of char and the roar of a living thing. The house, my home, my anchor, was burning. I stood in the doorway, barefoot, the cold air biting my skin, and watched the timber scream. There was no time for fear. Only duty. I ran to the library. Not for the books. For the ledger. The old oak chest was locked. I knew the key. I had the key....
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