The Wistful Show
The rain has been falling for three days, a thin, cold sheet that turns the mud of the parade ground into a slick, sucking brown, and you are standing there with your hand pressed against the wet leather of your holster, feeling the metal of the pistol grow cold against your palm. The air smells of wet wool and old stone, a scent that has settled into your bones over the years, a smell that...
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