The Eternal Fog of London
The fog did not merely drift through the streets of London; it possessed them. It was a thick, sulfurous shroud that clung to the cobblestones and muffled the screams of the dying in the East End. For Arthur, a clerk at the Royal Bank of England, the fog was a mirror of his own existence—grey, suffocating, and devoid of light. Arthur lived in a world of ledgers and ink-stained fingers. He was a...
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