The Last Sunset of Innocence
The fog of London did not lift on the morning of the Great Fire of the Heavens; it merely turned a bruised, iridescent purple. Arthur, twelve years old and dressed in the stiff, oversized wool of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, stood on the cobblestones of Fleet Street and watched the silence happen. It was not a loud death. There were no screams, no crashing buildings. There was only a sudden,...
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