The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of wet ash and the metallic tang of the river below, a scent that had become the very perfume of my exile in this city of iron and steam where the fog rolled in from the harbor to swallow the spires and the souls alike. I stood before the mirror in the cramped apartment on Blackfriars Lane, a place where the...
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