The Distant Journey
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended veil of grey mist that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into slick mirrors reflecting the flickering, dying light of the gaslamps, and I stood there, my boots soaking through, watching the great stone face of the library crumble into a pile of wet, indifferent dust, the sound of its collapse a low, tectonic groan that...
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