The Pale Garden
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, persistent exhalation from the grey, weeping sky that pressed against the high, arched windows of the manor, blurring the world outside into a smear of mud and dying ivy while inside, the air hung thick with the scent of wet stone, old paper, and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay that had settled into the very bones of the house. Arthur...
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