The Wistful Letter
The carriage wheels groaned against the gravel of Blackwood Palace, a sound like a bone snapping under the weight of the 1893 winter, and you, Elias Thorne, sat rigid in the corner with your leather case of tools clutched to your chest as if it were the only thing keeping your soul tethered to your body. The estate loomed ahead, a skeletal silhouette of iron and stone against the bruised purple...
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