The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended veil of grey water that turned the cobblestones of the industrial district into a mirror reflecting the smoke that bled from the factory chimneys, where Silas Vane stood with his back to the river, his hands resting on the pommel of a sword that had not seen blood in twenty years, listening to the breath of the city as it...
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