The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray lace that dampened the very stones of the manor house, settling into the cracks of the ancient foundation with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like a memory refusing to be forgotten. Inside the study, a room that smelled of dried lavender and the slow decay of paper, Elias Thorne sat before his desk, the...
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