The Pale Mist
The mist does not roll in. It descends. It presses against the glass of your office window like a living thing, seeking entry, seeking the warmth of the desk lamp that flickers in the draft. You are Professor Arthur Hale. You are fifty years old. You are alone. The city outside is London, but it is not the London of the guides. It is a city of grey stone and silence, swallowed by a fog that has...
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