The Pale Garden
The iron gate of the Ashworth estate did not creak when you opened it, which was the first wrong thing, for gates of that age, forged by hands now turned to dust in the churchyard, should have screamed in protest at the intrusion, should have groaned under the weight of their own rust and the damp breath of the autumn air, but it swung inward with a silence so profound it felt like a held...
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