The Pale Mist
The fog did not roll in so much as it rose, a thick, white miasma that swallowed the cobblestones of Blackfriars Lane and erased the sharp edges of the medieval timber-framed houses, turning the street into a void where sound went to die and time seemed to pool like stagnant water in the gutters. I stood at the threshold of my rented room, a third-floor attic that smelled of damp wool and old...
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