The Wistful Throne
The frost bites deep into the asphalt. You pull your collar up. It is not enough. The wind here has teeth. It scrapes against your ribs. You are looking for a sign. A mark. A clue. The city sleeps under a gray lid of fog. You walk. Your boots crunch on the ice. You are a detective. Or you were. The badge is gone. The pension is gone. The apartment is gone. You have a bag. You have a coat. You...
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