The Pale Garden
The brass of the revolver’s cylinder was cold in your hands, a weight that felt too heavy for the small, cramped room of your desk. You wiped the mechanism with a rag that had cost you two shillings last week, the fabric stiff with old oil. Outside, the fog of Harrowgate rolled in from the river, swallowing the gas lamps one by one until the street was a void. You are Thomas Bradshaw,...
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