The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the windows of the office like a second skin, blurring the city outside into a smear of indistinguishable charcoal and slate. Arthur Penhaligon sat in his chair, the leather creaking under the weight of his stillness, watching the droplets race each other down the glass in a silent, frantic competition toward the...
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