The Wistful Letter
The fog had swallowed the estate by dusk, a thick, grey wool that pressed against the windows of Blackwood Hall until the glass groaned under the weight of the cold. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the candlelight trembling in his hand, and began to write, his pen scratching a rhythm against the paper that mimicked the irregular thumping of his own heart. He was fifty-two, a man whose life had...
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