The Faded Masquerade
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of grey water that turned the streets of London into a smear of charcoal and rust, and as I packed the last of my tools into the leather satchel, I could feel the weight of the city pressing against my ribs, a physical force that seemed to demand a confession I was not ready to give. My hands, stained permanently with the indigo...
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