The Figure in the Fog
The fog came down over Yorkshire like a shroud, thick and yellow, tasting of coal smoke and wet wool. It swallowed the terraced houses whole, leaving only their rooftops visible like islands in a sea of grey. Inside the smallest house on Mill Lane, Thomas Hackney sat at his loom and wove. He had been weaving for three days without sleep. The first time the figure came, it was on the second...
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