The Pale Circus
The fog did not roll in from the harbor, as it should have in any sensible coastal town; it erupted from the cobblestones themselves, a thick, sulfurous miasma that tasted of iron and old dust. It swallowed the gas lamps of Blackwood Hollow one by one, extinguishing the orange glow of the streetlights until the world was reduced to a monochrome of grey and shadow. In the center of the square,...
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