The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain that erased the horizon and swallowed the sound of Elias Thorne’s breathing. He stood in the courtyard of Blackwood Manor, the wet cobblestones slick beneath his boots, clutching a deed that felt less like paper and more like a shroud. The manor loomed above him, a jagged silhouette against the bruised sky, its windows dark and...
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