The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it was extruded from the bruised, swollen belly of the sky, a viscous, grey sludge that coated the world in a film of cold, unyielding wetness, turning the cobblestones of the old quarter into a mirror that reflected nothing but the low, slouching forms of the buildings and the solitary, hunched figure of the constable who walked them. I remember the weight of...
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