The Wistful Dinner
The fog rolled in from the sea, thick as wool and grey as a rat’s belly. It swallowed the cobblestones of Whitby. It swallowed the gas lamps. It swallowed the world. Elias Thorne stood on the pier, his coat heavy with damp. He was a man of questions. Not big questions. Small ones. Where had the letter gone? Who had signed the deed? Why did the clock strike thirteen on Tuesdays? He had spent ten...
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