The Pale Tower
The rain in Harrowgate does not fall so much as it hangs, a thick, grey curtain that blurs the edges of the world and turns the cobblestones into mirrors of a sky that has forgotten how to shine. You are standing on the porch of the old library, your coat heavy with the damp, your hands buried deep in the pockets where the soil of the graveyard is still clinging to your fingers, dark and cold...
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