The Silent Hound
The rain in the outskirts of London did not fall; it descended like a heavy, grey shroud, clinging to the soot-stained brick of the cottages and the skeletal limbs of the winter oaks. Clara lived in a cottage that seemed to be sinking into the mire, a relic of a family that had long since erased her name from their ledgers. She was a ghost in her own life, her days measured by the rhythmic...
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