The Faded Attic
The rain against the slate roof of St. Jude’s Orphanage was a ceaseless, rhythmic drumming, a percussion that seemed to beat directly into the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood by the barred window of the attic room, his hands gripping the cold iron until his knuckles turned the color of old ash, watching the grey London fog swallow the city whole. Outside, the gas lamps of the...
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