The Wistful Ashes
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a silence so profound it felt like the air itself had been sucked out of the room, leaving only the heavy, suffocating weight of soot that hung in the rafters of the old manor house like a funeral shroud. It was a Tuesday in late November, the kind of gray, industrial day where the smoke from the factories in the valley below blended seamlessly with...
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