The Wistful Ashes
Act I Did you ever stop to ask why the fog stays so low on the bog roads, or if it simply refuses to let go of the things it has swallowed? Eoin Fitzpatrick, thirty-two years old and a border warden for the Ministry of Continuity, walked the misty frontier with his wife’s silver brooch clutched in his left hand, the metal cold against his palm. He was looking for the smuggler who had stolen her...
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