The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall so much as it suspended itself in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of Arthur’s coat and seeped into the very marrow of his bones, a constant, wet whisper that seemed to be the only voice left in the world after the funeral of his father, a man who had spent his life serving the institution and dying with the weight of its silence still pressing against his...
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