The Golden Downtown
The rain does not fall; it presses. It is a weight against the glass, a cold, gray thumb pinning you to the window seat of the bus as it crawls up the winding spine of the Blackwood Ridge. You look at your hands. They are trembling, not from the chill, but from the sheer, suffocating density of the air around you. It is thick with something that is not quite mist, not quite smoke, but a...
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