The Faded Ruin
The fog rolled in from the harbor not as a wall of grey water, but as a heavy, wet wool, suffocating the cobblestones of Blackwood Lane. It tasted of iron and old salt, a metallic tang that coated the back of Arthur Penhaligon’s throat. He stood before the heavy oak door of his childhood home, the iron knocker cold against his palm. It had been seven years since he had last walked these...
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