The Distant Journey
The rain did not fall so much as it was poured from the sky, a grey, relentless deluge that turned the streets of the old quarter into sluggish rivers of mud and memory, and I stood beneath the eaves of the abandoned tannery, watching the water gather in the gutters with the patience of a man who has forgotten how to hope, while somewhere behind me, in the dim, suffocating dark of the back...
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