The Faded Portrait
The rain in the valley of Ashcombe did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the eaves of the old manor house like a second, damp skin. It was the season of the harvest moon, though the moon itself was rarely visible, swallowed by the perpetual cloud cover that had been choking the sky since the ironworks first began to pump their black smoke into the atmosphere....
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