The Wistful Skyline
The house on the hill was not a home so much as a monument to a specific kind of silence. It stood in the English countryside, a sprawling Georgian edifice of pale stone that had begun to crack under the weight of decades and weather. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a smell that seemed to preserve time in amber. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the study, his legs...
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