The Wistful Skyline
The rain in the city of Vane did not fall; it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the eyelashes and the brass fittings of the gas lamps, turning the world into a wet, breathing thing. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his office on the fourth floor, watching the fog swirl around the spires of the industrial district, his hand resting on the railing with a familiarity that felt less...
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