The Last Keeper
The fog in Whitechapel did not roll in so much as it rose, from the river and the cesspits and the lungs of ten thousand breathing souls, until the world beyond a gas lamp's amber halo ceased to exist. Elias Thorn stood at his window in a room above a shut-down glove factory and watched the fog consume the alley, and in that consumption found a strange comfort. He was forty-two years old, and...
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