The Wistful Skyline
The fog did not roll in; it was there, a suspended grey static that swallowed the edges of the world before dawn had fully committed itself to breaking. In the center of the room, which felt less like a room and more like a cross-section of a nerve, Elias stood with his back to the door. He was a man composed of sharp angles and soft, tired eyes, a scholar who had spent forty years mapping the...
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