The Wistful Atlas
The rain in Millhaven did not wash things clean. It merely made the grime heavier. Silas Kaine drove the sedan with his hands loose on the wheel. He was a man who had learned to be still in the presence of violence. Now he was still in the presence of rain. The windshield wipers beat a slow, rhythmic funeral march against the glass. Outside, the town unfolded in shades of gray and bruised...
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