The Faded Attic
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey mist that tasted of iron and wet wool, clinging to the woolen cloak I had worn for three days without once removing it, the fabric so saturated with the damp of the road that it felt less like clothing and more like a second skin of rotting flesh that had grown over my bones during the long, silent trek from the southern...
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