The envelope is thick, the paper cream-colored and rough to the touch, smelling faintly of dried lavender and old dust. You hold it in your hands as you step off the train at the station in Harrowgate, the air biting at your face with a chill that seeps through the wool of your coat. It is late October, and the industrial city spreads out before you in a haze of coal smoke and gray brick, a...
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