The Pale Mist
November 14, 1893. The fog has not lifted in nine days, and the silence it brings is heavier than the coal dust that coats our windowsills. I have written this down because my hands are shaking too violently to hold the pen steady, and because if I do not record the exact moment the world broke, I fear I will be accused of having broken it myself. Clara is gone. She walked into the Pale Mist...
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