The Wistful Letter
The letter lay on the desk, the paper crisp and white against the dark oak, its edges slightly curled from the damp air of the library. Elara Vane did not sign it immediately; she held the pen, watching the ink pool at the tip, a black bead trembling with the weight of three years of silence. Outside, the wind screamed against the shutters of the Scottish estate, a sound like tearing cloth, but...
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