The Golden Suspect
The fog that rolled off the River Taff did not merely obscure the world; it consumed it, a thick, wet wool that smothered the gaslights of the mill town of Gwendraeth until they were nothing but distant, amber bruises in the grey. You stood at the edge of the embankment, your boots sinking slightly into the mud that smelled of iron and rot, watching the water churn with a violence that seemed...
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