The Wistful Silence
The rain in the city does not fall so much as it accumulates, a heavy, industrial grey curtain that presses against the windows of the factory, blurring the world outside into a smear of wet brick and soot. You stand in the center of the boiler room, the air thick with the scent of rust, ozone, and the sweet, cloying rot of the old oak beams that support the ceiling. Your hands are trembling,...
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