The Wistful Show
The sky did not break open so much as it dissolved, the slate-grey firmament of the industrial quarter bleeding into a thick, bruised violet that smelled of ozone and old copper, a scent that Elias had known since before he had learned to walk, since before he had learned to name the hands that had held him. He stood on the precipice of the foundry, the iron bridge groaning beneath his boots as...
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