The Archive of Fractured Selves
The London fog was not a weather pattern; it was a living thing, a heavy, grey lung that exhaled coal smoke and the metallic tang of the Thames into every open pore of the city. Arthur Winsley lived in the marrow of this city, a junior archivist in the Undercity, where the records of a forgotten civilization were kept in damp, subterranean vaults that smelled of ozone and slow rot. Arthur was a...
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