The Wistful Saga
The candle on the table had burned down to a stub, its light a trembling, sickly yellow that seemed to pull the shadows of the room closer to you, tighter around your shoulders, as if the air itself had congealed into a substance you could not escape. You sat at the heavy oak desk in the attic room of the Whitmore manor, the wood grain cold and rough under your fingers, feeling the weight of...
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