The Pale Tower
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the windowpane into a weeping eye that refused to close, staring out at the shivering, skeletal forms of the garden where the hydrangeas, once proud and blue, now hung their heavy heads in a wet, bruised silence, and in this house, which stood isolated on the edge of the moor like...
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