The Golden Visit
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, persistent exhalation from the bruised belly of the sky that hung low over the valley of Ashworth. It was a grey, liminal world, stripped of the sharp edges that defined the living, where the fog rolled in from the moors like a living thing, swallowing the hedgerows and the ancient stone walls until the landscape seemed to dissolve into a...
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