The Distant Promise
The dampness in the study does not smell of mold or rot, but of something older, a metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat like the memory of a struck match. I have been at Blackwood Manor for three weeks, serving as the junior archivist under the strict supervision of Mr. Vane, and in that time I have learned that the house is not merely old, but actively hostile to the presence of...
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