The Pale Door
The rain had been falling for three days, a cold, persistent sheet that turned the cobblestones of the lower district into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gaslight and the soot, and I stood there in the doorway of the mill, my boots soaking through, watching the steam rise from the drainage grates in slow, ghostly curls that seemed to have no business in this world of iron and sweat. I was...
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