The Golden Myth
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, suspended mist that turned the streets of London into a grey, breathing entity. Margaret stood on the wet pavement, her coat soaked through to the skin, watching the water pool in the cracks of the cobblestones. She was waiting for the door. It was not a door in a house, nor a gate to a garden, but a threshold in the fabric of the...
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