The Pale Letter
The rain has not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey veil that blurs the sharp edges of the city into a watercolor smear of slate and rust. You stand at the window of the fourth-floor apartment, your hand pressed against the cold glass, watching the droplets race down the pane in a frantic, silent competition. Inside, the air is still and thick with the smell of wet wool and old paper, a...
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