The Faded Portrait
The rain did not fall so much as it suspended itself in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of your overcoat and seeped into the marrow of your bones with a persistence that felt almost personal, as if the city itself were weeping for a crime it had committed but refused to name. You stood at the edge of the wet cobblestones, the weight of your service sash cutting a diagonal line...
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