The Pale Garden
The fog in the Yorkshire moors did not lift; it merely thinned enough to make the dark more distinct. Elias Thorne pulled his coat tighter against the damp chill, the leather of his gloves creaking as he adjusted the grip on his cane. He was thirty-two years old, a number that felt less like a milestone and more like a debt, and he carried the weight of his recent disgrace like a stone in his...
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