The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey curtain of suspended grief that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of wet stone and dying gaslight, and you stood in the center of the intersection, the heavy wool coat clinging to your shoulders like a shroud, holding the leather-bound folio to your chest with a ferocity that seemed disproportionate to the weight of the...
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