The Distant Joke
The fog rolled off the moors and into the courtyard of Highgate Keep, a thick, grey shroud that swallowed the stone walls and silenced the distant tolling of the morning bells. It was a morning of departure, heavy with the scent of damp wool and extinguished hearths, the kind of day that made the air feel less like atmosphere and more like a physical weight pressing against the lungs. Margaret...
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