The Wistful Skyline
The brass compass in your left hand is cold, a dead weight that anchors your wrist to the gravity of a world that has forgotten how to spin, and you are standing in the center of the library, the air thick with the dust of a century that refused to die, listening to the rhythmic, wet thud of your own blood in your ears as you wait for the door to open. You know the rules, or rather, you know...
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