The Wistful Skyline
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the streets of Ashford into slick, dark mirrors, reflecting the dim halogen glow of the streetlamps with a fidelity that felt almost accusatory. Margaret Holloway sat in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, the ceramic rough against her palms, the steam long dissipated...
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