The Pale Garden
The frost bit the iron gate. It did not bite the man. Elias stood in the drive. He wore his coat. The wool was thin. The cold was thick. He watched the house. The house watched back. It was a Victorian pile. Slate roof. Black stone. The windows were dark. Except one. The attic window. A square of amber light. It pulsed. Like a heart. Like a lung. Elias touched his neck. His hand stopped. The...
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