The Engine's Pulse

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2026-06-05 09:40:21 -

The fog did not roll in that winter of 1888—it rose. It climbed from the Thames like breath from a dying man's lips, thick with coal smoke and something else, something that made the hair on Arthur Blackwood's arms stand up when he walked home through the streets of Bloomsbury. He told himself it was the cold. He told himself many things. The first sign had been the telegraph wires. They hummed...

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