The Wistful Skyline
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not ring with the sharp, clear clang of a morning call, but with a low, mournful groan that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of the bones of everyone who lived within the shadow of its stone. It was a sound that had no business existing in the quiet, frost-stiffened air of the village of Harrowgate, a place where the fog rolled in thick from the moors...
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