The Faded Guest
The rain in Manchester did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, coal-scented mist that settled into the lungs and refused to leave, coating the cobblestones of Deansgate in a slick, black glaze that reflected the jaundiced gaslights of the Magistrate’s office. I stood there, forty years old and feeling as hollowed out as the brickwork of the condemned row behind me, my fingers...
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