The Wistful Ashes
The wind did not howl that morning; it screamed, a high, tearing sound that stripped the paint from the iron gates of the Ashworth Institute and rattled the windows of the dormitories until they sang a discordant, broken hymn. It was a storm born of the smog and the sea, a physical manifestation of the decay that had settled into the bones of the city, but to ten-year-old Thomas Bradshaw, it...
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