The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate was cold against your palms, the metal biting into the soft flesh as you pushed it open. It groaned, a low, mournful sound that seemed to rise from the earth itself. You were leaving. This was the parting you had rehearsed in the dark of your small room, the silence of which had become a living thing, pressing against your eardrums. But reality was louder. The village of Oakhaven...
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