The Faded Ruin
The mist clings to the iron bridges. You feel it on your skin. Cold. Wet. A living thing. The city breathes. It is not air. It is breath. Thick and gray. You walk the streets of Ashworth. The year is 1924. Or perhaps it is later. Time has slipped. You do not look at your watch. You lost it long ago. The buildings lean in. They whisper. The soot falls like black snow. It coats your coat. It...
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