The Golden Farce
The rain did not fall; it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the wool of my greatcoat and seeped into the bone. I stood at the edge of the moor, the earth soft and black under my boots, and watched the last of the flock scatter into the grey. They were not sheep. In the distance, they looked like white ghosts drifting over the heather, but up close, I knew their weight, their smell of...
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