The Wistful Ashes
The rain fell upon the grey slate of the roof with a rhythmic, persistent insistence that sounded less like weather and more like the ticking of a massive, indifferent clock, washing the dust from the eaves of the house that stood isolated on the hillside, a solitary beacon of white stone in the sprawling, industrial haze of the valley below where the smokestacks of the textile mills exhaled...
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