The Faded Portrait
The fog did not roll in so much as it seeped, a cold, viscous substance that crept up from the tidal flats of the North Sea, swallowing the jagged cliffs and the rusted iron skeletons of the abandoned mining carts until the world was reduced to a grey, breathing silence, a state of suspended animation that felt less like a landscape and more like the interior of a vast, sleeping lung. Thomas...
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