The Pale Exile
The architecture of grief is not built of stone, but of the slow, calcifying accumulation of silence, a structure that stands immutable against the erosion of time, much like the limestone cliffs that jutted out from the black Atlantic, indifferent to the ceaseless battering of the waves. I had returned to Harrowgate, that crumbling pocket of fog and salt spray on the northern coast, not out of...
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