The Pale Dance
The first thing you notice is the cold, not the biting kind that snaps against the skin like a whip, but the deep, marrow-deep chill that settles into the bones of the old stone house and refuses to leave, a cold that tastes of wet earth and forgotten winters, a cold that you have learned to respect because it is the only honest thing left in this town of Harrowgate, where the fog rolls in from...
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