The Golden Cellar
The rain does not fall so much as it strikes the corrugated iron of the depot roof, a rhythmic, metallic assault that vibrates through the soles of your boots and into the marrow of your shins. You are standing in the mud of the industrial outskirts of Manchester, the year 1913 pressing down on you with the weight of unfulfilled expectation. Your hand rests on the pommel of your service...
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