The Pale Fracture
The fog that rolls in from the Atlantic does not merely obscure the coastline of the Isles of Scilly; it consumes it, wrapping the world in a damp, grey wool that presses against the skin until the distinction between the air and the lung becomes a matter of subtle, terrifying negotiation. I have lived in this compression for thirty years, a clerk in the Department of Atmospheric Anomalies, a...
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