The Wistful Grid
October 14, 19— I am writing this by the light of a single kerosene lamp. The wind is off the sea, cold and sharp, cutting through the gaps in the boardwalk where I sleep. I have come to Harrowgate to find the truth. Or so I thought. I have spent three days walking the wet streets, questioning the fishermen, the shopkeepers, the women who watch from their porches with eyes like polished stone....
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