The Distant Promise
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended veil of grey mist that clung to the cobblestones of the Old Quarter, turning the world into a watercolor smear of slate and shadow. I sat in the corner of the tavern, the wood of the bench biting into my thighs, watching the droplets race down the leaded glass windowpane. They moved with a frantic, purposeful urgency, as if they,...
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