The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of my coat and the leather of my gloves. I stood in the doorway of the precinct station, watching the streetlights bleed into the wet asphalt, their halos fractured by the relentless drizzle. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and old paper, a smell that had become so intrinsic to...
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