The Pale Garden
The fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and gray as wet wool. It swallowed the cobblestones of the lane. It swallowed the gas lamps. It swallowed the world. Caleb stood in the center of the room. The air was stale. It tasted of iron and old smoke. His hands were steady. They had been steady for twenty years. Now they trembled. A fine, persistent shake. Like a leaf in a gale that would not...
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