The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the gray, weeping sky of London, a persistent, rhythmic exhalation that soaked into the cobblestones of the Shoreditch alleyways and seeped up through the soles of the heavy boots worn by Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose very posture suggested a burden so immense it had calcified into his spine, bending him forward into a permanent, apologetic...
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