The Wistful Skyline
The air in the sanitarium smelled of boiled linen and wet stone, a scent that had settled into the marrow of young Julian’s bones long before he understood what it meant to be dying. He was twelve, a boy of sharp elbows and quiet eyes, seated at the head of his bed in the long ward of St. Jude’s, a place that sat perched on the cliffs of the Welsh coast like a white bird with its wings broken....
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