The Distant Metropolis
The rain on the windowpane is not merely water; it is a membrane, thin and trembling, separating the warm, stagnant air of the study from the cold, indifferent night outside. You stand before it, your breath fogging the glass, and you do not wipe it away. You are a scholar of linguistics, a man who has spent the last twenty years mapping the dead languages of the Balkans, yet you find yourself...
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