The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a dense, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the cobblestones of the market square into a slick, reflective mirror of the weeping sky, where old Elias Thorne stood with his back to the wall of the bakery, his breathing shallow and ragged as a bellows failing, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the terrible,...
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