The Pale Letter
The rain lashed against the single, fogged window of the library in Harrowgate, a relentless, drumming assault that blurred the world outside into a smear of grey mud and dying leaves, and you sat there, your fingers white-knuckled around a cold cup of tea, watching the reflection of your own haggard face in the glass, a face that seemed to belong to someone else, someone who had wandered too...
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