The Wistful Letter
The ink was still wet on the final line when Elias Thorne folded the paper, his fingers trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone walls of the Blackwood Asylum, but from the weight of the accusation he had just committed to fiber and water. He was thirty years old, a junior archivist with a reputation for precision and a soul that felt increasingly frayed by the rigid,...
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