The Wistful Letter
The ledger had four hundred and twelve entries, each one a small, dry crack in the silence of the Blackwood Asylum, and Arthur Vane had spent the last three hours counting them to keep the whispering at bay, the sound of his own fingernails scraping against the cold iron of the desk as the black mold crept further up the window frame, a slow, wet pulse that matched the rhythm of the building’s...
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