The Distant Joke
You stand in the center of the square, your coat buttons straining against the wind that howls through the bare branches of the linden trees. The cobblestones are slick with a morning rain that has not yet decided whether to stop or to intensify, and beneath your boots, the city feels less like a place and more like a mechanism, a vast, grinding engine of law and order. You are Aldous Thorne,...
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