The Golden Song
The fog that settled over the valley of Ashcombe did not roll in from the sea, as one might expect in these parts, but rather seemed to exude from the very pores of the earth, a thick, grey miasma that swallowed the iron railings of the estate and the skeletal branches of the ancient yew trees until the world was reduced to a suffocating, circular intimacy of dampness and silence. I sat alone...
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