The Golden Visit
The rain hits the pavement in a steady, gray drumbeat. You check your watch. The strap is cracked. The leather peels away like dead skin. You are standing in the alley behind the textile mill. The air smells of wet wool and sulfur. You are a constable. You carry a truncheon. It is heavy. It is oak. It smells of varnish and fear. You look down at your hands. They are trembling. The cold is in...
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