The Pale Garden
The rain in Harrow’s End did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray veil that blurred the line between the sky and the wet cobblestones of the High Street. You stood at the threshold of the old mill, your uniform damp and heavy, the fabric clinging to your shoulders like a second skin that had long since lost its warmth. Behind you, the sound of your boots on the wet stone was the only...
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