The Wistful Saga
The scrawl was fresh, the ink still glistening with a wet, viscous sheen that defied the dryness of the autumn air trapped inside the sealed house. I stood in the center of the parlor, my hand resting on the hilt of my service pistol, staring at the jagged, illegible mark scratched into the plaster of the interior wall, a violation of the locked doors and the silence I had cultivated for twenty...
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