The Seventh Lung
Kael remembered the day the water started burning. He was nine years old, crouched on the rooftop of what used to be the Royal Exchange Building, watching the Thames rise over the last bridge that had not yet fallen. The water was not clean—it had not been clean in his lifetime—but this was different. There were bubbles. Yellow foam. A smell like a wound that had been bandaged too long. His...
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