The Wistful Show

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2026-08-20 17:46:40 -

The Wistful Show

The rain in Harrowgate did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker. It turned the cobblestones into mirrors of gray mud and the thatched roofs into heavy, sagging sacks of wet straw. I stood on the porch of the university annex, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. My left hand, the one I used for writing, for signing papers, for holding the quill...

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