The Pale Tower
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into a slick, treacherous mirror of the sky. I stood on the balcony of the Institute, my fingers white-knuckled around the iron railing, watching the water drip from the eaves in a steady, rhythmic tear. It was a sound that had become my heartbeat, a metronome counting down the...
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