The Distant Cartograph
The rain in Seattle does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the city into a mirror of wet asphalt and reflected neon that distorts the faces of the men who walk its streets. I stood at the edge of the 9th Avenue bridge, watching the grey water churn below, feeling the cold seep through the thin fabric of my uniform, a sensation that had long since ceased to be a...
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