The Faded Frequency
14th of November, 1892. The rain has not stopped since morning, a grey curtain that blurs the edges of the city until the world feels like a sketch forgotten in a drawer. I sit in my office at Halloway & Sons, the ink in my pen drying out, not because I have finished writing, but because I cannot decide what to write. The ledger lies open before me, its columns of black figures marching toward...
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