The Wistful Letter
The ledger held three hundred and twelve entries, each line a weight of ink that Elias Thorne had balanced with the precision of a surgeon. He had counted them twice, the pen trembling slightly in his grip, not from cold but from the sheer, crushing gravity of the task. The black cloak in his dream had been heavy, a thing of wet wool and iron that pressed against his throat until he gasped for...
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