The Wistful Voyage
The elm tree stands in the center of the garden, its roots gripping the damp earth of the manor house with a tenacity that feels less like botany and more like a slow, deliberate act of possession, and you are standing before it now, holding a small brass key in your hand that is cold against your palm, a key that does not fit any lock in the house but seems to fit the silence that has settled...
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