The Distant Wound
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that tasted of iron and old stone, clinging to the wool of my coat and settling into the creases of my face. I stood before the gate of the Ashworth estate, the iron bars rusted into a lattice that looked less like a barrier and more like a cage for the soul, while the storm outside raged with a silence that was somehow...
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