The Faded Paradox
The rain in the coal-smoke city does not wash things clean; it merely presses the grime deeper into the pores of the brick and the skin, a slow, suffocating embrace that binds the living to the dead in a shared, gray shroud. You stand at the threshold of the Iron Gate, your hand resting on the cold iron latch, feeling the vibration of the steam pipes beneath your boots hum through the soles of...
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