The Pale Tower
The rain had been falling since Tuesday, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the square into slick mirrors reflecting the dim, amber glow of the lanterns, and you sat there, wrapped in a coat that smelled faintly of wet wool and old paper, watching the door of the pub swing open and closed like a heavy, rhythmic breath, while inside, the air was thick with the scent of...
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