The Wistful Letter
The air in the infirmary of Blackwood Priory was thick with the scent of wet stone and old blood, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed against Elias Thorne’s lungs as he stood before the Headmaster’s desk, his hands trembling not from fear but from a rage so cold it burned. He demanded the return of his shattered silver pocket watch, the only remaining link to his dead wife, a demand that...
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