The Wistful Witness
It was the damp that had finally started to speak, Elias thought, as he wiped the condensation from the cold stone wall with a rag that did nothing but smear the grey mold into a darker, more defined shape. The cellar of the Ashworth estate was not merely wet; it was weeping, a persistent, chilling exhalation that no amount of coal in the stove could banish, a condition that had grown worse...
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