The Faded Portrait
The rain that has been falling since dawn in the valley of Harrow’s End does not wash away the dust, but rather mixes with it to form a thick, cloying mud that clings to the soles of your boots and seeps into the cracks of the flagstones, a physical manifestation of the decay that has been slowly consuming the estate of your late father, a man you have spent the last two decades constructing in...
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