The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the line between the cobblestones and the low-hanging clouds, turning the ancient square into a mirror of its own decay, a place where the shadows of the gargoyle statues seemed to stretch and breathe with a slow, rhythmic pulse that matched the thumping of Thomas’s heart against his ribs. He stood there, his coat...
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