The Silent Singularity
The fog of London in 1892 did not merely drift; it clung to the cobblestones like a damp shroud, smelling of coal smoke and old secrets. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the dim light of his basement laboratory in Bloomsbury, the only sound the rhythmic, hypnotic hiss of a Leyden jar. For twenty years, since the night a freak atmospheric discharge had reduced his parents to pillars of white ash in...
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