The Pale Meridian
The deed is in the iron box, and the box is in the cellar, and you are the only one who knows the combination. You stand at the top of the stairs, listening to the floorboards creak under the weight of your own hesitation. The manor is silent, a vast, hollow thing that breathes only when the wind pushes against the broken shutters. Your father has been dead for six months, but the house feels...
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