The Faded Sutra
The iron gate of the Ashworth estate did not creak so much as it groaned, a low, tectonic complaint that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Eleanor Whitmore’s boots as she pushed it open. She was not alone in her grief, for the wind itself had taken on a personality, a sharp, biting character that whipped her hair across her face and stung the raw skin beneath her eyes. She had crossed the...
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