The Wistful Letter
The damp in Blackwood did not simply settle on the walls; it seeped into the bones of the house, a cold, persistent ache that Clara Vane had long ago learned to mistake for grief. It was October, the year 1998, and the town lay under a perpetual gray shroud, the kind of weather that made the superstitious elders cross themselves and whisper about curses, though Clara knew better than to join...
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