The Wistful Skyline
The coat was not merely a garment but a skin, a second dermis woven from the heavy, rain-soaked wool of a country I had left before I learned its name, and it clung to my shoulders with the tenacious, suffocating embrace of a lover who knows that the air outside is too thin for survival. I stood at the edge of the platform in the small, perpetually fogged town of Oakhaven, watching the steam...
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