The Echoes of a Hollow City
The silence of Los Angeles was not a lack of sound, but a presence of something far more oppressive. For ten years, the sky had been a monochromatic tomb, a ceiling of charcoal-grey clouds that the residents called The Shroud. It was a velvet weight, pressing down on the city until the very concept of a horizon had vanished from the collective memory. The Shroud did not merely block the sun; it...
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