The Wistful Dinner
The rain does not fall so much as it is exhaled from the low, bruised sky of the industrial district, a perpetual mist that coats the cobblestones in a slick, reflective film where the gaslights sputter their weak, amber defiance against the encroaching dark. You stand at the threshold of the tavern, the brass knuckles of your left hand itching with a phantom weight, the memory of the impact...
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