Listen. February mornings in Lincolnshire do not begin . They materialise. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a thought the land immediately regrets having. The fog arrived before I did, which felt intentional. It lay low across the fields, thick and unapologetic, blurring hedgerows into vague moral suggestions. The cold had weight to it. Not the sharp, honest cold of winter, but the damp one. The kind that seeps. The kind that remembers you. I stood there for a moment, coat buttoned incorrectly, breath fogging the fog, and considered the true horror of this county. It is not the monsters. Monsters are easy. They announce themselves. They hiss, glow, or chant in Latin. You know where you stand with a monster. No. The real terror of Lincolnshire is people. Not all people, of course. That would be unfair. Some are perfectly lovely. Others, however, emerge from the mist clutching carrier bags, opinions, and a deeply held belief that they are right about something you have n...
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