The Faded Portrait
The rain does not wash the city clean. It only makes the grime slicker. You know this. You have known it since you left the quiet, dry hills of your homeland, where the air smelled of hay and iron. Here, in the industrial belly of the metropolis, the air smells of sulfur and wet wool. You sit in the back of the carriage, watching the streetlamps blur into streaks of amber and grey. Your hands...
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