The Faded Quadrant
The fog in Harrowgate did not lift so much as it receded, a slow and deliberate withdrawal that exposed the town in layers of grey slate and damp stone, as if the world were being peeled back to reveal its raw, trembling nerve. I sat in the high window of the miller’s cottage, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the mist curl around the eaves of the...
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