The Pale Bridge
The rain in the valley did not fall so much as it rose, a thick, grey mist that clung to the wool of Edward Ashworth’s coat and settled in the creases of his face like a second, damp skin. He stood at the edge of the cliff, where the village of Oakhaven ended and the ancient, uncharted wild began, watching the last of the harvest carts disappear into the fog below. They were leaving him behind....
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