The Pale Garden
The letter was thick, cream-colored, and heavy with the smell of stale tobacco and old money. You held it between your thumb and forefinger, the paper trembling not from the cold that had settled into your bones, but from a vibration that seemed to rise from the floorboards of the cramped flat in Whitechapel. Outside, the November rain lashed against the single pane of glass, blurring the neon...
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