The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-23 14:00:51 -

The fog has not lifted from Blackwood Manor in three days, a thick, grey wool that presses against the windows like a living thing seeking entry, and I find myself unable to stop shaking as I hold the silver clasp in my palm. It is a small, unassuming piece of jewelry, a tortoiseshell and silver brooch that my father wore for forty years before the madness took him, and which I have worn for...

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