The Faded River
The ink is wet. It glistens like a fresh wound on the heavy cream paper, a stark, dark line against the beige of the Ministry’s letterhead. Your hand trembles. You do not know why. You are Elias Vane, senior clerk, forty years old, and you have just signed your resignation. The date is November 14, 1912. Outside the window, the London fog presses against the glass, a thick, grey wool that...
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