The Pale Garden
Blackwood Estate, 21st December, 1893. I have counted the hours since Miller vanished, and there are forty-eight of them, each one grinding against the stone of the boundary wall like a millstone in a dry bed. The fog is not merely thick today; it is heavy, possessing a weight that presses against the eardrums and makes the air taste of wet iron and old dust. I require three men with iron bars...
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