The Wistful Skyline
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the town and turned the cobblestones into mirrors of wet slate. Inside the small, windowless room above the tailor’s shop, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and old wool. Margot sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting in her lap, fingers laced together. She was a woman of thirty-two,...
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