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2026-06-03 13:45:11 -

The fog came in off the Thames that November, thick as wool and twice as suffocating. Arthur Pemberton stood before the rusted gate of Pemberton & Sons with a key that hadn't turned in thirty years. His grandfather had been dead two months. The estate lawyer had mentioned debt, mostly in the negative tense, as though poverty were a contagious disease Arthur had just been exposed to. The shop...

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