The Wistful Cipher
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a thick, greasy mist that clung to the cobblestones of Harrow’s Lane and soaked into the wool of my coat until I felt the cold not as a sensation on my skin but as a heavy, leaden weight settling in the marrow of my bones. It was the kind of November that London knew well, a grey, industrial soup of coal smoke and damp rot that seemed...
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