The Wistful Letter
The wind did not howl; it spoke. It scraped against the eaves of Blackwood Manor like a dry tongue on a cracked lip, and the syllables formed your name. Elias Thorne. You stood at the threshold, the stolen key heavy in your pocket, and the air tasted of iron and rot. You had come to decode the final journal of Arthur, your mentor, the man who had shaped your mind and then vanished into the fog...
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