The spring day was rainy, just like every day in Depression Alley. The name itself was somewhat misleading, seeing as the average day in Depression Alley was actually fairly enjoyable. But this was no average day. Slipping into his cardigan tuxedo with ease, Traden Fairlad gingerly stepped onto his front step, stepping with all the steps a man could muster so early in the morning.
Without warning he noticed the rain, which soaked into his woolen work-wear with an ease transcending effort. Traden experimentally tried lifting his arm and found that the added weight of the rain made it quite impossible to do so.
“Bugger” he said, waiting for the sun to come out.
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