The Golden Song
The rain had been falling since dawn, a thin, relentless mist that clung to the skin of the city like a shroud, and I sat in the corner of the cramped, damp cellar beneath the old textile mill in Shoreditch, my back pressed against the cold brickwork, my fingers numb and trembling as they hovered over the keys of the upright piano, the instrument that had been my inheritance, my curse, and my...
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