The Wistful Skyline
The rain in London does not wash the city clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into black mirrors that reflect the gaslight in trembling, fractured shards. I sat in the back of the hansom, my knuckles white as I gripped the brass railing, my breath fogging the small, dirty window pane. Inside my coat, pressed against the cold, damp wool of my lining, was the...
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