The Wistful Witness
The tower fell. Not with a crash. With a sigh. Dust choked the air. Grey. Thick. Sweet. It tasted of iron. Of old blood. I coughed. My lungs burned. I could not breathe. I am Elias Thorne. I have no last name. Not anymore. Names are anchors. Anchors drag you down. I cut the rope. I drifted. I stood in the square. The square was gone. Only rubble remained. Piles of stone. Bones of the city. The...
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