The Distant Ghost
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the streets of Boston into a murky, flowing mirror where the reflections of the streetlights shattered and reformed in endless, dizzying loops, and inside the cramped, windowless office of the Department of Anomalies, Arthur Penhaligon sat with his hands folded in his lap, his fingers interlaced so tightly that the...
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