The Wistful Skyline
The brass key was warm in my palm, a heavy, cold thing that seemed to hold the heat of a summer that had not yet arrived, or perhaps one that had already left us. I stood in the center of the high-ceilinged room, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of pale light that cut through the tall windows, and I held the key up as if it were a compass needle pointing toward a north that no longer...
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