The Distant Metropolis
The river ran black and thick, a mirror of oil and iron that stretched out beneath the bridge like a wound that would not close. I stood on the embankment, my coat heavy with rain, watching the current drag debris past the rusted pylons. My name is Thomas Ashworth, and I am a man who has learned to see the world in fragments, in the things that remain after the noise has been stripped away. The...
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