The Golden Circuit
The rain in Chicago did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the glass and seeped into the marrow, eroding the distinction between the city’s stone skin and the wet flesh of those who walked its streets. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of day that felt less like a passage of time and more like a slow, suffocating compression, where the air grew heavier with...
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