The Golden Visit
The morning fog in Ockham’s Hollow did not lift so much as it thickened, a dense, milky curtain that swallowed the crooked rows of cottages and the single, gasping church spire, leaving the world suspended in a grey, breathless silence that pressed against the windows of the Ashworth house. Margaret sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold,...
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