The sky above the city was a flat, uniform white, the color of paper that had been soaked and dried and soaked again until whatever it had once said was gone.
Edvyn Crael stood at the edge of the abyss, feeling the cold wind against his face.
The wind howled through the trees as lightning split the sky that had no sun.
This was different from the usual overcast.
Overcast implies clouds, movement, the suggestion of weather pending.
Edvyn had been here before.
He was certain of it before he could explain why — the way his feet had already chosen a direction before his mind caught up.
The street that received him was narrow, the buildings crowding close overhead, and he recognized the particular acoustics of it — the way sound deadened too quickly against stone that should have echoed.
You have been here before.
He filed the thought under unreliable and kept moving.