The Wistful Letter
The ink in the Hollow House does not dry; it weeps. I am Jing Tang, and I have served as the Archivist for twelve years, a tenure measured not in seasons but in the slow, calcifying weight of silence. My hands, once steady enough to bind the brittle spines of the Ming dynasty, now tremble with a fatigue that sleep cannot cure. The walls of the institution bleed a viscous black fluid that smells...
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