The Pale Path
The rain in London did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a single, breathing entity of soot and stone. I sat in the cramped silence of my flat on Baker Street, the damp cold of the November night seeping through the single-pane window and settling into my bones like a second, heavier skin. On the desk before me lay the letter from the...
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