The Distant Summer
The rain in Chicago does not fall; it hangs, a grey curtain that smells of wet concrete and old iron. I stood on the fire escape of my fourth-floor apartment, watching the water streak down the brick, feeling the cold dampness seep into my bones. It has been six years since I left the force, six years since the badge was taken from my chest with a clip of cold plastic, and the silence has grown...
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