The Faded Sutra
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a persistent grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the high street into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gaslight above. You sat in the center of your damp cottage, the silence of the room pressing against your eardrums with a physical weight, your eyes fixed on the large, tarnished mirror hanging above the...
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