The Distant Whispers
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey mist that erased the horizon where the ancient moor met the sky. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots sinking into the wet heather, watching the fog roll in from the sea with a slow, deliberate malice. He was a man of modest stature and modest reputation, a clerk in the administrative wing of the Grand...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews