The Wistful Show
Athol Buchanan’s hand was already on the cold stone of the boundary wall when the first snowflake struck his cheek, a gritty, icy grain that felt like sand against the skin. He did not turn to look at the village lights flickering in the distance, nor did he check the time, for the light of the short winter days had already failed, leaving only the grey, physical fact of the dark pressing in...
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