The Wistful Skyline
The porcelain teacup held in Silas’s palm was not merely a vessel for tea; it was a fragment of the sky, a sliver of the blue expanse that had once looked down upon the industrial sprawl of Blackwood Manor with indifferent grace. He held it with a reverence that bordered on the religious, his fingers tracing the fine hairline crack that ran from the lip to the handle, a fracture that had...
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