The Wistful Skyline
The house held its breath. It was a large, decaying thing on the hill, with windows that looked like hollow eyes staring out at the fog. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool and old paper, a scent that had settled into the floorboards over decades. Professor Elias Thorne sat in his study, a small room with no window, surrounded by towers of books that leaned against each other...
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