The Wistful Silence
The fog lay thick on the streets of London, a grey wool drawn over the city’s face. It swallowed the gas lamps and blurred the edges of the world. Thomas Vane walked through it, his collar turned up against the damp chill. He was a man of few words, but the fog seemed to speak for him, muttering in low, damp tones. He was looking for a bird. Not a specific bird, but the concept of one. A...
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