The Wistful Skyline
The kettle on the stove was old, a heavy cast-iron thing with a chip in the enamel where the red paint had worn away to reveal the black metal beneath, and I watched the steam rise from its spout as it curled into the cold air of the kitchen, forming shapes that looked like hands reaching for something they could never quite hold. I was making tea for the committee, the local housing oversight...
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