The Wistful Silence
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of grey water that blurred the edges of the moor until the world was reduced to a series of damp, breathing silhouettes. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for time had lost its rigid architecture in the highland fastness of the estate, becoming a viscous fluid that pooled in the hollows of the valley. Thomas Bradshaw stood...
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