The Silence of the Hound
The rain in the outskirts of London did not fall; it seeped, a grey, suffocating veil that clung to the rotting eaves of Arthur's farmhouse. Arthur sat in the kitchen, his hands trembling as he stared at the old bloodhound, Barnaby, lying by the hearth. Barnaby was a relic of a better time, his muzzle white, his eyes clouded with cataracts. He was a burden now, a mouth to feed that Arthur could...
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