The Distant Joke
The iron gates of the Ashworth Estate did not merely open; they exhaled, a long, rusted groan that echoed through the valley like the dying breath of a beast that had slept for a century, and it was into this exhalation that Silas Thorne stepped, his boots sinking into the wet, dark earth that smelled of rot and impending rain, a scent that clung to his woolen coat and the thinning hair of his...
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