The Distant Affair
The frost does not merely coat the world in Harrowgate; it seizes it, shattering the delicate geometry of the morning into a thousand jagged, trembling shards of ice that scream against the silence. You stand on the bridge, your breath a white ghost escaping your lips, watching the river below not as water but as a fractured mirror, a shattered pane of glass that reflects a sky which is not...
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