The Wistful Letter
14th November, 1893 The gaslight in the attic of Blackwood Mill shimmers with a distinct, oily agitation, casting long, trembling shadows against the soot-blackened beams, while I, Elias Thorne, sit hunched over a desk that smells of damp wool and old iron, my fingers cramped around a pen that feels as though it might snap under the weight of the words I am forced to drag onto the page. I am...
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