The Wistful Skyline
The champagne was cold in the crystal flutes, a metallic taste that coated the tongue like the residue of a machine part. We stood in the atrium of the Whitmore Exchange, a cathedral of glass and steel that pierced the smog-choked sky of London, 1912. The air hummed with the low-frequency thrum of the hydraulic lifts, a sound that vibrated in the marrow, a constant reminder that the city was...
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