The Golden Song
The rain does not fall so much as it settles, a heavy, grey shroud that presses the breath out of the city and into the bones of the men who stand upon its slick, reflecting stones, and you are one of these men, standing in the shadow of the iron gate, watching the carriage carry her away, the sound of the wheels on the wet cobblestones a rhythmic, mechanical thumping that seems to measure out...
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