The Pale Path
The rain in London does not wash the city clean. It merely presses the grime deeper into the pores of the cobblestones, turning the mud into a slick, black paste that clings to the soles of one’s boots. I stood on the corner of Whitechapel Road, watching the steam rise from the vents in the street, a ghostly exhalation from the earth itself. My hands, wrapped in threadbare gloves, trembled...
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