The Wistful Incense
“Silas, I am asking you to sign the order. The house is dead, and I am dying with it.” Captain Elias Thorne wrote the words in a hand that trembled only when the ink dried, the nib scratching against the heavy, cream-colored paper of the estate’s final correspondence. It was November of 1912, and the air in the study of Blackwood Manor was so cold that the breath of the coal fire in the grate...
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