The Ivory Requiem

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2026-06-11 03:12:32 -

The Ivory Requiem

The fog rolled off the Thames like a shroud, thick and yellow and smelling of coal smoke and rot. Tommy Ashworth pulled his coat tighter and walked along the embankment, the makeshift cello strapped to his back beneath his threadbare jacket. He was fourteen years old and his fingers were already calloused from three months of playing. Three months. That was all it had been since he first picked...

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