The Faded Bouquet
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped into the bones of the city, a cold, industrial weeping that turned the cobblestones of Blackwell Lane into slick mirrors. Thomas Ashworth stood on the threshold of the precinct, his coat soaked through to the skin, the dampness a second skin that clung with a jealous persistence. He was leaving. Not in triumph, nor in defeat, but in a state of...
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