The Midnight Grimoire
The rain in New York doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the grime slicker, makes the neon signs bleed their colours into the puddles on the sidewalk, makes the whole damn city look like a watercolour painting left out in a storm. I sat in my apartment on Canal Street, watching the rain hit the window, and I tried to remember how I died. Not the dying part—that was easy enough. A bullet in...
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