The Distant Promise
The rain does not fall so much as it is expelled from the sky, a grey, relentless mist that soaks into the wool of your coat and settles in the marrow of your bones. You are walking. You have been walking for three days, or perhaps four, since the train derailed on the moor and the world shattered into splinters of iron and screaming. The landscape is a blur of peat and heather, a desolate...
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