The Distant Metropolis
The iron key sat in your palm, cold as a stone pulled from a winter river, its teeth worn smooth by generations of turning. You had been holding it for an hour, sitting in the dark of your study, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside that flickered against the rain-slicked pavement. The key did not belong to any lock you owned. It did not belong to the college, to your apartment, or...
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