The Faded Frequency
The rain in Harrow’s End did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker, turning the mud into a paste that clung to the soles of your boots and the hinges of the gate. You stood by the window of the station house, the glass fogged by the steam of the radiator, watching the fog roll in off the moor like a living thing, thick and gray and indifferent. Your left hand, the one that had...
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