All the Houses That Never Were
The morning Eleanor Whitmore did not die, she woke to a different kind of rain. It was lighter than the rain she had known for seventeen days, more mist than water, the kind of rain that softened the edges of the slag heaps and made Blackmoor look almost beautiful, almost like a place where someone might choose to live. She sat up in her bed and felt, for the first time in six months, something...
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