The Wistful Letter
The feast at Blackwood Manor had not been a celebration, but a ritual of endurance, where the silverware clinked against porcelain with the brittle precision of bones breaking under pressure. Dr. Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long oak table, his face gaunt and drawn, the hollows beneath his eyes deepening into shadows that seemed to swallow the candlelight. He was a scholar of rare...
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