The Wistful Saga
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended gray veil over the city that refuses to end. You walk through it, your boots heavy with the sludge of the streets, your uniform damp against your skin, a second layer of flesh that chafes and binds. You are walking toward the wall. The wall is not made of brick or stone, but of silence, a barrier that stretches from the harbor to the high...
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