The Wistful Saga
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the streets of Chicago into rivers of black oil and shattered glass, blurring the sharp edges of the skyline until the skyscrapers seemed to dissolve into the wet fog, and I stood in the lobby of the old Meridian Hotel, my hands wrapped around a mug of cold coffee, watching the water drip from the frayed edge of the...
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