The Wistful Incense
The iron gate groaned as Silas forced it open. The sound was not loud, but it cut through the morning air like a scream held in the throat. He stood in the courtyard, his hands trembling, not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the silence that surrounded him. The manor house loomed behind him, a fortress of gray stone and stained glass, its windows dark like unblinking eyes. Silas was a...
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