The Wistful Skyline
The silk shawl had begun to unravel before you left the city, its threads loosening like the grip of a memory you could no longer hold. You wore it over your shoulders in the carriage as it rattled over the cobblestones of the old district, the fabric whispering against the wool of your coat, a sound as faint and persistent as the wind through bare branches. It was a garment of terrible beauty,...
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