The Distant Promise
The morning fog sat heavy on the cobblestones of Whitmore Institute, a gray shroud that clung to the iron gates and swallowed the lower branches of the ancient oaks until only the skeletal fingers of the canopy remained visible against the pale, indifferent sky. Arthur Penhaligon walked through it, his boots making no sound on the wet stone, for his footsteps had long since ceased to belong to...
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