The Wistful Skyline
The fog did not roll in so much as it remembered itself, thickening the air of the estate until the windows of the manor were blind, white squares staring out at a world that had ceased to exist. Inside, the library smelled of beeswax and the slow decay of paper, a scent that Margaret Holloway had spent thirty years learning to distinguish from the smell of fear. She sat in the high-backed...
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