The Faded Chronicle
1912, November 4. The rain has not stopped for three days, a persistent, greasy sheet that turns the cobblestones of Blackwood into a slick, black mirror reflecting the sputtering gaslights above. I am writing this from the constable’s bench in the fourth district, my hand cramped from the cold, the ink freezing in the well of my pen, while I wait for the Magistrate to see me regarding the...
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