The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall upon the estate of Blackwood Manor so much as it seeped, a cold, viscous mist that clung to the stones and the skin alike. It was a journey that had taken Elias Thorne three days of walking, his boots heavy with the clay of the lowlands, his shoulders bowed under the weight of a satchel that contained nothing but silence. He was a man of seventy winters, his hair the color...
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