The Wistful Grid
The dream is always the same. You are standing in the attic of the Blackwood Estate, the air thick with the scent of dry rot and old paper. Rain hammers the slate roof, a relentless drumming that sounds like applause. You are holding a book, a ledger with a cracked spine, and the light from the single window is blindingly white. You open it, expecting to see the name of Lord Blackwood, but the...
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