The Wistful Letter
You are standing in the rain, but the water is not falling from the sky; it is rising from the cobblestones, a cold, gray tide that laps against the hem of your uniform until the wool feels heavy with the weight of the sea. The city, usually a rigid grid of stone and steel, has softened into a blur of shadows and wet light, the gas lamps flickering with a rhythm that matches the pounding of...
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