The Wistful Skyline
The elevator doors slide open with a sigh that feels less like mechanical release and more like a long, suppressed exhale, depositing you into the sterile, humming silence of the top floor of the Meridian Tower, a place where the air is so scrubbed of dust and memory that it tastes like plastic and ozone. You stand there, holding the small, cold object in your left hand, your knuckles white not...
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