The Faded Portrait
The rain did not fall; it was forced down, a grey curtain of industrial soot and condensed vapor that smacked against the iron shutters of the station like a thousand small, angry fists. Silas Thorne stood at the edge of the platform, his boots heavy with the mud of a journey that had already ended, though he was only beginning the walk to the exit. In his left hand, he clutched a leather...
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