The Distant Affair
The rain in the old district did not fall so much as it hung, a fine, gray mist that clung to the brickwork and the skin, turning the alley into a throat of wet stone. Elias Thorne stood before the sewer grate, his yellow raincoat slick and heavy, watching the black fungal mass pulse against the iron bars. It was the size of a man’s head, a wet, glistening tumor of rot that seemed to breathe in...
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