The Fog's Witness
In the autumn of 1888, London was not a city but a series of islands floating in a yellow sea. The fog—a thick, sulfurous miasma—did not just obscure the streets; it erased them. It crept into the hallways of Crawford Manor, curling around the mahogany banisters like a pale, inquisitive finger. To Arthur Windsor-Crawford, the fog was an irritant, a blurring of the lines that he spent his entire...
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