The Pale Tower
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a grey, suspended particulate that coated the windows of St. Jude’s Rehabilitation Center in a film of static. Inside, the air tasted of wet wool and industrial lemon cleaner. Margaret Holloway sat in the corner of the communal lounge, her knees drawn to her chest, watching the water trace its slow, inevitable path down the glass. She was not...
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