The Distant Garden
The iron gate of the Blackwood Estate did not so much open as it exhaled, a long, rusted sigh of steam that curled into the grey, industrial fog of the Manchester morning. I stood on the cobblestones, my uniform pressed to a severity that bordered on the holy, the brass buttons of my tunic reflecting the dim, gaslight glow of the streetlamps that were only now being extinguished. There was a...
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