The Faded River
The ink bled into the parchment, a dark vein spreading under the nib. You pressed harder, forcing the letter to form, but the stroke wavered, a tremor in the hand that mirrored the shudder in the air. This was the third draft of the final chapter, the one that mapped the syntax of the dead. The manor of Harrowgate sat heavy in the fog, its stones damp and cold, listening. You had spent four...
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