The Wistful Show
The leather cover of the ledger was slick with sweat and the acrid residue of smoke, a weight that pressed against my ribs like a second, harder heart. I clutched it to my chest as I ran, the cobblestones of Lyon blurring into a gray smear beneath my feet, while the air grew thick with the smell of charred timber and unwashed bodies. Behind me, the roar of the mob was not a sound but a physical...
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