Welcome to (Re)wild Imagination, an exploration of how art can sustain hope amid climate crises, and how ordinary people can help the environment by supporting native wildlife in local areas. You are reading the paid version, which includes a serialised gothic novel.
Mr Krink was the person I ran to when I abandoned Auburn, the ancestral home of my forefathers. He was the only person I knew outside the estate. My car was one of many things that have gone missing, but that little Ford did its job: it got me to him. I met Ryan in the tailor’s shop, in Mr Krink’s shop.
It was Christmas Eve. The earth was cold and hard. The trees were dead. In that part of the world, the distance between earth and sky is skeletal. Clouds touched the ground in all places, heavy and hoary, smelling of ill intent.
The drive of Auburn is long, perhaps a mile, twisting and turning, shrouded by trees and hemmed in by bushes. Smark, the groundsman, took care of them. He culled the rats and magpies, he culled the deer. I had rather been hoping I would see him that morning but he was nowhere in sight. The gate lodge appeared deserted.
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