The Distant Temple
The rain did not fall so much as it hung. It was a fine, persistent mist that clung to the iron girders of the Mill House, turning the world outside the windows into a grey smear. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. Margaret stood before the mirror in the hallway. It was an old thing, silver-framed, its glass clouded with age. She adjusted her collar. She...
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