The Pale Mist
The rain is not falling so much as it is being exhaled by the gray belly of the sky, a thick, wet sigh that presses against the glass of the precinct’s fourth-floor window where you sit, your fingers stained with the indigo ink of the case file that has consumed your life for the last six weeks, while the city outside roars its electric, indifferent chorus of sirens and tires on wet asphalt,...
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