The Wistful Letter
Blackwood Manor did not breathe, though the wind that tore through the skeletal yews in the garden made the windowpanes rattle with a sound so rhythmic, so persistent, that Elias Thorne’s hand tightened involuntarily on the leather strap of his bag, a physical reaction to a threat he could not name, a primal tightening of the muscles in his jaw that spoke of a fear deeper than the damp chill...
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