The Pale Mist
The rain did not fall so much as it dissolved, a thick, grey soup that erased the cobblestones of King’s Row and swallowed the gas lamps whole, turning the city into a bruise that would not heal. I stood at the window of my cramped office in the counting house, watching the fog roll in from the river, a living thing with teeth, and I knew with the cold certainty of a stone dropped into deep...
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