The Pale Path
The fog did not lift so much as it thickened, a grey wool drawn tight over the face of the city, swallowing the gaslights and the iron rails of the elevated tracks until the world outside your window was merely a suggestion, a rumor of geometry and noise. You stood by the window of your workshop, the air inside still and heavy with the scent of heated metal and ozone, the smell of a trade that...
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