The Wistful Letter
The ink was still wet on the parchment when the sound of heavy boots crunched against the gravel drive, a rhythmic pounding that shook the dust from the rafters of Blackwood Manor. Elias Thorne did not look up from his letter, his quill scratching a steady, deliberate line that described the bark of the great oak in the courtyard, a tree whose roots had gripped the earth for three centuries and...
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