The Wistful Letter
The diary lay open on the desk, the ink still wet, the date tomorrow’s. I, Elias Thorne, Royal Archivist of forty-two years’ service, stared at the page where my own hand had scrawled a warning I had not yet written. The Black Velvet Cloak was missing from the sealed East Wing, and the silence in the library was not empty but heavy, a physical weight pressing against my eardrums. I wanted the...
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