The Pale Garden
The rain did not fall so much as it was exuded by the sky, a constant, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the industrial district into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the soot-stained facades of the textile mills. I stood beneath the eaves of the Ashworth & Sons Foundry, my collar turned up against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the...
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