The Wistful Skyline
The wind off the moor did not blow; it scraped. It was a sound like dry leaves being ground against rusted iron, a constant, low-frequency vibration that I felt in my molars before I heard it with my ears. We were three days out from the last stone wall, walking the grey spine of the land toward the coast. Thomas walked ahead of me, his boots striking the packed earth with a rhythmic, dull thud...
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