The Wistful Letter
The ink was still wet when the wind rattled the pane. Arthur Vane sat at his desk, the smell of camphor and rot thick in the air of the cottage. He was a botanist, a man who categorized the world by Latin binomials, yet his lungs felt like a sieve. The disease was wasting him, a slow erosion that no tincture could halt. He needed the wisteria. He needed the vine that had grown in the shadow of...
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