Night hasn't fallen yet, but London's sky has grown dark, streets enveloped in a layer of damp gray light, accompanied by the patter of drizzle, making the entire city seem as if it's soaked within an ocean.
Rainwater gathers into small streams within the crevices of the cobblestones, reflecting the dim glow of gas lamps, dripping drop by drop onto eaves, awnings, and carriage shafts, emitting a broken ticking sound. A coachman, draped in an oilcloth cape, sits atop the carriage, silently smoking a pipe, while the mane of the horses has long been drenched, clinging to the skeleton marked neck.
Few pedestrians remain on the streets.
A few delivery boys hurriedly wrapped in burlap bags dash towards the alley entrance, with a few potatoes softened by rainwater left in the wicker baskets slung over their shoulders. As they run, they curse the stench from the East District sewers, complaining about the rain that has lasted three hours, lingering overhead unwilling to leave.
