The Wistful Letter
The stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude were not merely damp; they were weeping, a slow, rhythmic exudation of black fluid that pulsed in time with the frantic hammering of my own heart. I sat in the scriptorium, the candlelight flickering against the pages of the *Codex Umbra*, the forbidden text that had consumed the last three years of my life and the sanity of my soul. I am Elias Thorne, a...
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