The Long Shadow of Thomas Crane
The rain in Chicago does not fall — it waits. It hovers in the air like a question nobody wants to answer, dripping from the sky in slow, uncertain drops that soak through your coat and reach your bones. Thomas Crane watched the rain from his bakery window. The bakery was narrow — one counter, one oven, one shelf with three stale loaves of rye that had been there since Tuesday. It was Friday....
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