The Pale Letter
The fog in the coal yards of New Bridge did not merely obscure the world; it swallowed it, a thick, sulfurous curtain that turned the gaslight into a sickly, amber bruise against the grey sky. Elias Thorne, a man whose coat was perpetually stained with the soot of the city’s industry, stood on the wooden planks of the pier, his boots caked in mud, watching the water churn beneath the hulls of...
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