The Wistful Mirror
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the industrial district into slick, black mirrors reflecting the soot-stained facades of the textile mills and the low, humming presence of the gas lamps, which flickered with a sickly, jaundiced light as Sergeant Elias Thorne stood beneath the awning of the closed chandlery, his hand resting on...
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