CHARPER 10:
In the spring of 2041, the house on Blackthorn Moor stands restored and waiting.
The study fire burns brightly though no logs have been added.
On the desk sits an octagonal inkwell, dark and full.
The ebony pen rests beside it, nib sharp, ready.
Somewhere in London, a writer named Amelia Thorne has not answered her phone in weeks.
Her flat is empty, her laptop cold.
Her friends assume she finally took that retreat in the countryside to finish her novel.
On the moor, the rain has started again—soft, patient, like fingernails gently testing the glass.
Inside, a young woman writes by lamplight, page after page, unable to stop.
The stories are brilliant.
They are terrifying.
They are almost finished.
And in the desk drawer, wrapped in fresh black silk, waits another inkwell.
Just in case.