The Golden Crossing
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, grey curtain that smelled of wet iron and old dust, and it was in this suffocating dampness that Thomas found the cloak, draped over a rusted gatepost like a shroud left behind by a ghost who had forgotten to take it with him. It was heavy, woven from threads that seemed to catch the dim light of the twilight and hold it there,...
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