The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-19 10:09:12 -

The mortar was gray and thick. It smelled of wet chalk and old bones. Margaret did not look up. Her hands moved with the rhythmic precision of a machine, tamping the mixture into the crevices of the wall. The wind off the moor was a physical thing, a cold fist against her back, but she did not feel it. She felt only the vibration of the trowel against the stone, a dull, steady hum that replaced...

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