The Faded Guest
The rain slicked the cobblestones of the alley. It was cold. The air smelled of wet iron and old smoke. Silas stood under the awning of the closed chandler shop. He waited. His hand rested on the hilt of his revolver. The leather was worn soft. His fingers were stiff. He could feel the pulse in his wrist. A steady drumbeat. It matched the rhythm of the rain. He had been here for an hour. The...
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