The Wistful Skyline
The door latch clicks, a sound too loud in the hollow silence of the manor, and you know you have left something behind. Not a key, not a book, but the part of yourself that still believes in the order of things. You stand on the stone porch, the rain misting your face, while the great oak door swings shut behind you. Inside, in the dim study where the fire has long since died, your father sits...
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