The Wistful Show
The rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones of the Court Street wet and gleaming, reflecting the gaslights in long, trembling ribbons of amber. I stood at the end of the line, my coat buttons straining against my chest, and watched the procession of silhouettes moving toward the Iron Gates. It was a cold, industrial dawn, the kind that smells of coal dust and wet wool, and the air felt thick...
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