The Wistful Letter
The fire did not start in the kitchen, as the initial panic had screamed, but in the heart of the archive, a slow, hungry consumption of paper that turned the air thick with the scent of burning dust and old ink. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak doors of the Reading Room, his hands trembling not from the heat, which was distant yet, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that...
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