The Pale Meridian
The fog did not roll in so much as it descended, a heavy, wet wool that suffocated the cobblestones of Harrowgate and swallowed the gaslights whole, until the town was nothing more than a collection of muffled breathing and the rhythmic, industrial thrum of the looms in the mill, a sound that had long since replaced the heartbeat of the people who lived within its shadow, for there was no other...
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