The Wistful Show
The autumn air in Blackwood County tasted of wet iron and decay, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I stepped from the carriage onto the gravel drive of Blackwood Manor, a structure that seemed less like a house and more like a geological formation that had decided to mimic human habitation. I am a surveyor of forty years, a profession that demands an absolute fidelity to the...
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