The Wistful Skyline
The rain does not wash the city clean; it merely makes the grime of the industrial district slick and treacherous, reflecting the gaslights in long, trembling ribbons that seem to reach for the soot-stained sky. You stand at the window of the third-floor flat, your breath fogging the glass, and you watch the droplets race down the pane like small, frantic spirits trying to escape the gravity of...
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