The fog rolled in off the bay like a living thing, swallowing the streetlights one by one until F...
The fog rolled in off the bay like a living thing, swallowing the streetlights one by one until Francisco was nothing but a circle of yellow in a sea of gray. Violet Moreau watched it from her gallery window on Grant Avenue, a cigarette burning forgotten between her fingers. The portrait was sitting on her easel, half-finished. A man's face, all sharp angles and shadow, painted from memory...
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