The Distant Ghost
The fog rolls off the moor in thick, grey ribbons, tasting of iron and wet wool. You are walking. You have been walking for three days, since the morning you left Eleanor at the gates of the sanatorium, her hand cold in yours, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the horizon. You carry the leather satchel against your hip. It is heavy, not with gold or documents, but with a silence that...
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