The Wistful Skyline
The bell above the door of the Whitmore & Sons General Store did not ring so much as shudder, a metallic tremor that traveled up the frame and into the wood of the floorboards. Elias Whitmore looked up from his ledger, his pen hovering over the column for dried goods, the ink still wet and dark as a bruise. Outside, the fog of the industrial valley had begun to lift, revealing the jagged teeth...
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