The Faded Masquerade
The rain in Harrowgate was not merely water; it was a systemic failure of the atmosphere, a grey, persistent static that clung to the wool of your coat and seeped into the leather of your satchel. You walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man who had long since accepted that the world offered no resistance to his will, only an indifferent, viscous medium through which he had to push. You...
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