The Wistful Show
The bell above the door did not ring. It hung there, a dead tongue of brass, silent against the cold draft that swept through the alley. "Did you hear it?" the man asked. He stood by the window, his back to the room. He was tall, a frame built for the street, for the weight of leather and the shock of impact. His name was Silas. He did not turn. He did not need to. He knew the shape of the...
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