The Fog of Mourning
The smog of 1884 did not merely cling to the cobblestones of London; it breathed. It was a thick, sulfurous shroud that swallowed the gaslights and muted the screams of the city. For Arthur, the fog was not a weather pattern, but a reminder of the Great Static Storm of 1864—the day the world stopped for his parents. He remembered the silence most of all. One moment, his father had been reading...
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