The Pale Dance
The rain in New Haven did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the wool of my coat and settled into the marrow of my bones, turning the city into a watercolor left too long in the damp. I walked with the heavy, deliberate stride of a man who has learned that speed is a luxury the dead cannot afford, my eyes fixed on the mud-slicked cobblestones where the light of...
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