The Pale Tale
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, grey mist that clung to the eaves of the town and seeped into the bones of the buildings, turning the cobblestones of High Street into slick, black mirrors that reflected nothing but our own distorted, shivering forms, and it was in this oppressive, damp twilight, with the smell of wet wool and rusted iron hanging heavy in the air, that I...
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