The-Waiting-Table
I arrived at Hathersage station with a cat in a wicker basket and a letter from my sister sealed in cream parchment. Four years in California had taught me how to photograph the golden light over Monterey Bay, how to brew coffee that didn't taste like burnt horse urine, and how to sleep alone without dreaming about a certain pair of cold grey eyes. It had not, however, taught me how to stop...
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