The Wistful Skyline
The carriage wheels grind against the cobblestones of the ancient capital, a rhythmic scraping that echoes in the hollows of your ribs, and you watch the skyline through the cracked glass, a jagged teeth of slate and iron rising against a sky the color of bruised plums, a horizon that has always felt like a wound that refused to heal, a boundary that marked the limit of where you were allowed...
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