The Distant Machine
The rain did not fall so much as it leaked out of the sky, a slow, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a mirror for the clouds. You are standing in the center of the square, and you are wet. Your clothes, the simple woolen coat you wore when the world cracked open, are heavy with water. You do not shiver. You have stopped shivering three days ago, or perhaps three...
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