The Wistful Skyline
The rain does not fall here; it hammers. It strikes the iron plates of the roof above you with a rhythm that feels less like weather and more like a verdict, a relentless, metallic drumming that seeps into the bones and turns the air into something thick and gray. You are standing in the center of the courtyard, the mud sucking at the heels of your boots, and you are holding the ledger. It is a...
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