The Wistful Skyline
The glass is broken. You know this before you wake, a fact etched into the marrow of your bones, a cold shard lodged in the side of your neck. You are lying in the narrow bed of the attic room in the old textile mill, the one your grandfather built before the looms went silent and the smoke cleared from the valley. The air is thick with the smell of dust and old wool, a scent that has permeated...
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