The Wistful Letter
The water in the basement archives of the Halloran City Library did not smell of rot, but of iron and old paper, a scent that clung to Elias Thorne’s skin like a second layer of clothes. He stood ankle-deep in the murk, the emergency lights flickering above him, casting long, trembling shadows across the rows of waterlogged cabinets. Silas was gone, his body pulled out an hour ago, but the air...
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