Rudra Sen The road to Blackmoor village twisted like a serpent through the mist, narrow and slick with rain, the headlights of Daniel’s car cutting pale arcs across hedgerows that seemed to lean in and whisper as he drove. He was late, later than he had planned, and the countryside had that unnerving quality of stretching endlessly, as though he were circling the same patch of earth again and again. His editor had sent him here on what was meant to be a small piece—an article on forgotten English villages, the ones people left behind when the railways stopped running…
