The Pale Garden
The train slowed as it approached the station, the iron wheels grinding against the rusted tracks with a sound like a long, dying exhale. Thomas Ashworth stood in the doorway of the carriage, his hand resting on the cold steel frame, watching the fog roll in from the moors. He was a man carved from the same stone as the landscape, broad-shouldered and silent, his face a map of lines that had...
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