The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain of industrial soot and steam that smelled of wet iron and old pennies. I stood at the edge of the platform, my boots slick with mud that had nothing to do with the earth, for the ground here was paved in a substance that shimmered like oil on water, reflecting not my face but a face that was older, harder, and infinitely more...
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