The Golden Mirror
The rain in London does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of Whitechapel into a mirror that reflects only the hollows of the sky and the desperate, wet faces of those who walk too fast to be seen by the men in the top hats who stand beneath the gaslights. You are one of those who walks too fast, though your name is not written on any ledger, and...
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