The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a grey, persistent curtain that blurred the edges of the world into a smear of charcoal and mud, pressing against the thick glass of the observation deck where Silas Vane sat alone, his hands resting on the cold iron of the railing, feeling the tremor in his fingers that had nothing to do with the damp chill seeping through his wool coat. He was a...
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