The Silence of the Absolute
The fog did not merely drift through the streets of London; it possessed them. It was a thick, jaundiced shroud that clung to the blackened brick of the East End, muffling the cries of costermongers and the rhythmic clatter of hansom cabs. In the bowels of a converted warehouse in Spitalfields, Arthur sat encased in a silence so profound it felt physical. For seven years, Arthur had been the...
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