The Wistful Letter
The ink on the page was still wet when Elias Thorne heard the whisper, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. He did not look up from his ledger; he had learned, in the three years since his appointment as junior archivist at the Blackwood Institute, that the Whispering Hall demanded acknowledgment only through action, not attention. The shadows here were not mere absences of light...
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