The Wistful Skyline
The rain in 1913 did not wash the city clean; it merely pressed the grime deeper into the cobblestones, turning the streets of Blackfriars into a slick, dark mirror that reflected the gaslight in distorted, trembling shards. I am Elias Thorne, a constable of twenty years’ service, and I am currently standing in the basement archives of the 14th Precinct, listening to the Gray Hum. It is not a...
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