The Distant Affair
The sky split open. It happened at dawn. The horizon, usually a pale grey line where the mist clung to the fields, tore apart like wet paper. Light poured out. Not sun. Something else. Cold and white and absolute. It poured over the valley of Ashworth. It poured into the houses. It poured into the bodies of the men and women who stood in their gardens, staring up. Thomas Bradshaw stood in his...
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