The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-24 14:40:42 -

The chisel bit into the limestone, and the sound it made was not a strike but a scream, a thin, high-pitched wail that seemed to rise from the marrow of the rock itself. I held my breath, my knuckles white against the handle, watching the dust settle in the dim, damp air of the cellar where the shadows moved with a sluggish, liquid weight. It is the fourteenth of November, 1342, and I am...

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