The Pale Bridge
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain woven from the soot and steam of the industrial district, a perpetual mist that clung to your clothes and tasted of copper and old iron. You stood at the edge of the wharf, watching the last of the night shift board the steamers that hissed and groaned against the dark water, their lights smearing into long, bruised streaks as...
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