The Faded Chronicle
The rain in this part of the city does not wash things clean, it only makes the grime slick and treacherous, turning the cobblestones into a mirror for the bruised purple sky that hangs low over the soot-stained rooftops of the industrial district. I sit in the back booth of O’Malley’s, the leather cracked and peeling like the skin of a dried apple, watching the steam rise from my cup of tea...
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