The Wistful Saga
The rain had been falling on the roof of the Thorne estate for three days, a persistent, gray drumming that seemed to seep into the very stone of the walls, making the air inside thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. Elias Thorne sat at his desk in the study, his hands steady as he pinned a small, tarnished silver brooch to the velvet board, his eyes scanning the ledger for the entry...
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