The Distant Legend
The rain in Leeds did not wash the city clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into black mirrors that reflected the jagged neon of the shops and the hollow eyes of the pedestrians. Margaret stood on the corner of Briggate, her coat buttoned to the chin, holding a brass pocket watch in her left hand. The watch was warm, not with the heat of a living body, but with the...
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