The Pale Tower
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of gray mist that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of brick and iron. I was standing on the wet cobblestones of Harrow Street, my umbrella broken, my coat soaked to the bone, watching the water drip from the eaves of the blackened tower at the end of the row. It was a monstrosity of soot-stained slate, a skeletal...
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