The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the cobblestones of the old quarter, turning the damp flagstones into mirrors that reflected the crumbling facades of buildings which had stood for three hundred years yet seemed, in the perpetual twilight of the city, to be slowly dissolving back into the earth from which they had been carved. It was a city that...
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