The Distant Metropolis
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old city into slick, dark mirrors. I walked with my head down, my collar turned up against the chill, clutching the small, leather-bound book to my chest as if it were a live coal. It was a book of maps, but not the kind that charted roads or rivers. It charted whispers. It charted the places...
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