The Wistful Letter
The east wing came down with a sound like a giant breaking a bone, a wet, heavy crunch that shook the dust from the ceiling of the parlor and turned the afternoon light into a swirling brown fog. Elias Thorne stood frozen in the doorway, his hand still gripping the brass doorknob, watching as the Victorian facade of his ancestral home, the very structure that had defined his life’s rigid order,...
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