The Wistful Silence
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist that clung to the wool of Thomas’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones. He walked the muddy track toward the village of Harrowgate, the leather of his satchel creaking with every step. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lay the brass pocket watch. It was not a fine thing; the casing was dented, the glass cracked in a spiderweb...
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