The Echoes of St. Pancras
The fog did not merely drift through the streets of London; it possessed them. It was a thick, sulfurous shroud that tasted of coal smoke and old grievances, clinging to the damp cobblestones of King's Cross and swallowing the gaslights in a jaundiced haze. Arthur lived in the marrow of this city, working as a mortuary assistant in the shadow of St. Pancras Station. He was a man of silence, a...
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