The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-20 10:34:21 -

The iron bit bites into your mouth, and the taste of blood is the first thing you remember upon waking from the long, grey dream of the road. You are Margaret, though the name feels like a garment worn too tight, a label stitched onto a body that has forgotten how to be human. The rain has not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold sheet that turns the heather into a bruised, sludge-like...

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