The Faded River
The damp in the cellar of the Ashworth manor was not merely moisture; it was a living, breathing thing that settled into the marrow of my bones, a cold so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against my ribs. I sat on the bare flagstones, the only light filtering through a single, grime-caked window high on the wall, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air like...
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