The Wistful Skyline
The hand trembles. It is not a violent shake, not the rattling of a bone in a jar, but a fine, persistent vibration, like a plucked string that refuses to fade. You look at it, your own right hand, resting on the polished oak table of the hall, and you feel a strange detachment, as if the limb belongs to someone else, someone who has lived longer and suffered more than you have. You are Thomas,...
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