The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a pervasive, cold mist that clung to the soot-blackened timbers of the gatehouse and seeped into the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a sensation that had become so indistinguishable from his own breathing that he could no longer tell where the man ended and the weather began, for he had been standing there for three days, watching the narrow stone...
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