The Faded Chronicle
The iron gate of the Ashworth estate did not rust so much as it faded, a slow dissolving into the grey morning mist that clung to the hills like a shroud. Margaret stood at the top of the drive, her hand resting on the cold metal, watching the world below lose its sharp edges. She had been alone there for three hours, since the sun had barely begun to bleed through the clouds, and the silence...
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