The Wistful Atlas
The autumn wind of 1893 did not merely blow through the shattered panes of Blackwood Manor; it invaded the house with the tenacity of a creditor, raking the dust from the high rafters and settling it upon the rotting floorboards like a fine, grey powder that coated every surface in a uniform, suffocating layer. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the drafty foyer, his uniform crisp and his boots...
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