Farringdon

Fog curled around the street lamps, dim halos struggling against the night.

The cobblestones glistened with rain, carrying whispers of footsteps that did not quite echo.

London slept uneasily, but one figure moved with purpose, clothed in shadows darker than the mist itself. His coat flared with each turn, a phantom ripple through the gloom.

Passersby swore they felt eyes on them, yet when they looked, nothing remained but drifting fog. The figure paused at a narrow alley, fingers brushing the worn brick as though tracing hidden sigils.

Secrets pressed close in this city, crime, sorrow, and hunger, and he carried them all like a cloak.

London’s bleakness was his home, and his silence its warning.