The Faded Attic
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain drawn tight against the windows of the old municipal watchtower, blurring the city below into a smear of wet cobblestones and distant gaslight, while inside the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood that had seeped into the stone over centuries and refused to wash out. Silas Thorne stood in the...
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