The Wistful Skyline
The rain hits the glass with a violence that feels personal, a staccato rhythm against the high windows of the Grand Hall where the air is thick with the scent of old wax and damp stone. You are standing at the center of the room, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that has fallen over the assembly. They are looking at you. Dozens of faces,...
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