The Wistful Ashes
The rain in this part of the valley did not fall so much as it hovered, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the brickwork of the house and seeped into the pores of the skin, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang of the old copper pipes and the deeper, sweeter rot of the garden that had been left untended for three years, a silence that was less an absence of sound and more a heavy,...
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