The Wistful Asylum
The notary counted the pages, his fingers dry and quick against the parchment. Three deeds. One will. A finality that smelled of dust and old ink. Elara sat across from him, her hand resting on the table, trembling not from cold but from the weight of the air in the room. She wanted the signature. She needed the estate sold. The opposing force was already there, waiting in the corner of her...
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