The Pale Banner
The rain in Prague did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey water that turned the cobblestones of the Old Town into a shimmering, fractured mirror. Elias Thorne, forty years old and hollowed out by three years of silence, stood beneath the eaves of the Charles Bridge, clutching a leather-bound notebook filled with his transcriptions. He was a linguist by training, a scholar...
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