The Wistful Voyage
The fog that rolled in from the harbor at dawn did not behave like weather, but rather like a living entity, a vast and gray beast that crept through the iron lattice of the city’s underbelly, swallowing the gaslights and the cobblestones in its cold, damp mouth, until the streets of Bristol were nothing more than a labyrinth of shadows where the only certainties were the sound of one’s own...
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