The Echo of a Thousand Winters
The fog of London in 1888 did not merely drift; it clung to the skin like a damp shroud, smelling of coal smoke and old secrets. Julian sat in the dim light of his private library, the silence broken only by the rhythmic scratching of his quill. He was a man of fragments—restoring the torn pages of forgotten manuscripts, stitching together the remnants of lives he had never known. He lived in...
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