The Wistful Skyline
The dream is not a story but a texture, a heavy, damp wool that settles over your shoulders before you have even opened your eyes. You are standing in the hallway of the house, the one with the floorboards that sing a low, mournful note when the wind pushes against the back windows, and the air tastes of iron and old paper. You are seven, or perhaps eight, an age where the world is still large...
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