The Distant Ghost
The wind off the moor does not blow so much as it presses, a cold, technical weight against the skin that forces you to recalibrate your posture with every step. You are walking the ridge of the highlands, a stretch of granite and heather that has seen fewer than three men in a century, and you are doing so because the Commission requires a survey of the boundary lines before the winter snows...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews