The Wistful Skyline
The train shuddered into the terminus with a groan of rusted iron that seemed to echo the very marrow of your bones, and you stepped out onto the platform where the air hung thick with the scent of coal dust and damp wool. It was the winter of 1924, a season that felt less like a time of year and more like a state of being, a cold so pervasive it seemed to calcify the thoughts of those who...
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