The Pale Garden
The rain does not fall so much as it is imposed upon you, a cold, rhythmic drumming that vibrates through the soles of your boots and settles into the marrow of your bones, a persistent, wet whisper that refuses to let the silence of the estate fully return to its dominion over the night. You are standing in the corridor of the east wing, a place where the air tastes of damp stone and old dust,...
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