The Pale Mist
Act I The canal water rose against the brick walls of the archive, a slow, grey pressure that made the floorboards groan in the low hours before the shift change. It was a sound like a stomach turning, a low, wet friction that every clerk in the station knew by heart. Zara Bhatti sat at her desk, the recycled stock of a family photo tucked under her elbow, the faces in it blurred by years of...
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