The Pale Mist
The old stone abbey at the edge of the moor, a place where the mist clings to the flagstones like a wet wool shawl, has stood unchanged for three hundred years, its arches high and silent and indifferent to the small human dramas that play out within its shadow. You are leaving now, or at least that is what you tell yourself, packing the last of your tools into the canvas bag with a frantic...
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