The Wistful Show
The oak tree in the center of the courtyard had begun to weep not sap, but a thick, viscous black ichor that smelled of ancient copper and forgotten rain. Thomas Ashworth stood beneath its boughs, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the profound, hollow silence that had settled over the manor like a shroud. He was a man of few words, a craftsman of locks and keys who had served the...
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