The Faded Portrait
The fog in 1893 did not merely obscure the streets of Ashworth; it consumed them, a grey, industrial breath that settled into the lungs and turned the air into a thick, wet paste. You stood in the drafty hall of the estate, your twelve-year-old hands trembling so violently that the faded portrait of your father, Lord Edward Ashworth, rattled against the marble floor. The canvas was brittle, the...
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