It wasn't just a weather front. It was gravity. The weight of the year, the weight of the history contained within these walls, was pulling the sky down. The pressure in her ears popped, a sharp reminder of the changing atmosphere. She stood up and walked to the window.
She walked back toward the manor, her boots crunching on the frost-hardened mud. The house, a sprawling Georgian structure of grey stone, looked less like a building and more like a geological formation rising from the mist. The windows were dark, reflecting nothing. ashby winter descending
They called it "Ashby Winter," but it wasn't just a season. It was a descent. It wasn't just a weather front