The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray curtain that turned the cobblestone streets of Ashworth Hall’s entrance into a mirror of the weeping willows lining the path, and it was through this veil of water that old Elias Thorne arrived, his boots creaking with the heavy, wet thud of a man who had walked a long way and carried an even longer silence, the scent of damp wool...
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