The Faded Paradox
The wind off the moor did not howl; it whispered, a dry, rasping sound like the turning of a page in a book left open in a drafty room. Dr. Arthur Penhaligon stood at the edge of the cliff, his coat flapping violently against his ribs, his breath visible in the chill as a series of small, white ghosts escaping his lungs. He was not looking at the sea, which churned below in a sullen, gray fury,...
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