The Wistful Skyline
The taste of copper is the first thing that remains when you wake from the dream of the field, a metallic tang that coats the tongue and settles in the throat like a small, cold stone. You are lying in the back of the transport vehicle, the metal floor vibrating with the idle hum of the diesel engine, and you are trying to remember if you are dead or merely broken. The air in the cabin is thick...
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