The Pale Letter
The brass key was cold against Elias’s palm, its teeth worn smooth by decades of anxious thumbs. He stood in the foyer of Blackwood Manor, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper, while the silence pressed against his eardrums like a physical weight. The house did not look at him, but the shadows in the corners seemed to lean in, stretching their limbs across the floorboards...
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