The Wistful Show
Silas Vane. The name was called out by the wind, or perhaps by his own fractured mind, as he crouched in the damp dark of the Blackwood estate cellar, his fingers tracing the rough, cold face of a boundary stone that did not belong there. He was forty years old, a man who had spent the last two decades constructing a narrative of heroic vindication, a self-styled investigator of local mysteries...
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