The Wistful Skyline
The fog that rolls in from the coast of Dorset is not merely weather; it is a living thing, a gray breath that seeps into the joints of the old manor house and settles upon the dust-covered floorboards with the weight of a funeral shroud. I have been here for three days, or perhaps it has been three weeks, for time has lost its rigid architecture in this place, stretching and warping under the...
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