The Distant Affair
The rain in Manchester had a texture, a gritty, industrial weight that seemed to scrub the soul clean of any pretense. I had been tracking the letters for three weeks, following a trail of ink stains and whispered names through the damp alleyways of the Northern Quarter. They were not ordinary letters. They were sigils, scrawled in a hand that trembled with the specific, violent urgency of a...
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