The Distant Metropolis
The rain in the city did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflected nothing but the grey belly of the sky. Mara stood on the corner of 4th and Main, her hand gripping the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles turned the color of old bone. Inside the bag, wrapped in a handkerchief that had once been white but was now the shade...
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