The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray gauze that blurred the edges of the city and the horizon into a single, indistinct smear. Inside the study, which smelled of old paper, damp wool, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone, Julian Vane sat before a desk cluttered with manuscripts and half-eaten toast. He was a man who had spent thirty years cataloging the silence...
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