The Faded Attic
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the lower city into a slick, mirroring sheet of black glass, and Thomas Whitmore stood on the threshold of the High Commissioner’s office, his boots soaking through the cheap wool of his trousers, the cold seeping into his bones with a slow, heavy insistence that felt less like a temperature and...
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