The Wistful Skyline
The coffee was cold, a thick, bitter sludge in the ceramic mug, and you knew it was wrong before you even lifted the rim to your lips. It tasted of iron and old pennies, a metallic tang that coated the tongue and refused to wash away. You sat in the back booth of the diner, the vinyl cracked and peeling at the edges, watching the rain streak the windowpane in erratic, weeping lines. The city...
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