The Wistful Saga
The rain didn’t stop. It just changed its mind about how hard it wanted to hit the window. I watched it streak down the glass of the station house, blurring the world outside into a smear of gray and green. My hand itched. Not a bad itch. A deep, structural one, like a bone trying to remember its shape. I rubbed the back of my neck where the mark was. It burned. A small, hot brand in the cold...
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