• The first sound was always the wind. Not outside, exactly—more like the echo of it, scraped into the bones of the building. It moved through the girders and concrete in slow, tonal sighs, humming beneath the floors like something unmade. At the very top of the Arsenal buildings, high above the Thames, the air pressed

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  • I don’t talk like this. Lets get that right, straight off the bat. I don’t write like this neither. I don’t know all the fancy words this nonce Tarquin writes with. Any embellishments he makes that dont look like me, is him. Right there see, there’s a word I would never say, not in a

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  • Not for his ears

    There; there it was, clear, defined, unimpeded. The room was empty but for himself. Clara walked past the dayroom, all vacant eyes and fear. There had been something different about today. He had fleetingly suspected this day was not ‘just another day’ before now – but as rapidly as the notion had come to him

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