The Faded Guest
The rain in London does not wash; it merely accumulates, a heavy, gray silt that settles into the crevices of the soul as much as the pavement, and you find yourself standing on the platform of King’s Cross, holding the leather glove that used to be yours, watching the steam curl from the tracks in a way that suggests a breath held for too long. It is late, or perhaps early; time has become a...
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