The Wistful Crossroads
The rain in the city did not fall so much as it hung, a gray, industrial mist that clung to the soot-stained brick of the Ministry of Civic Order. It was a Tuesday in November, and the air smelled of wet wool, coal smoke, and the metallic tang of the old pneumatic tubes that still pumped their sealed envelopes through the walls of the building. Elias Thorne stood at his desk, a small rectangle...
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