The Wistful Skyline
The rain hammered against the thick, leaded glass of the watchtower like a thousand frantic fingers seeking entry, a relentless, wet percussion that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of my bones as I sat alone in the high, cold silence of the keep, watching the mist roll over the valley below with the slow, heavy indifference of a tide that had forgotten how to recede. I am a man of the...
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