The Wistful Show
The fog in Harrowgate did not lift so much as it thickened, a grey wool that suffocated the iron spires of the foundries and the cobblestones of the High Street, and when you woke in the cheap room above the chandler’s shop, the first thing you felt was the weight on your left wrist, a cold, metallic pressure that felt less like an object and more like a part of your own anatomy that had been...
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