The Wistful Skyline
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a sound, a low, guttural moan that seemed to rise from the very bones of the earth before the first flame licked the thatched roof of the mill. It was a Tuesday, the kind of grey, unremarkable Tuesday that usually promised nothing but the slow grinding of grain and the quiet rhythm of Thomas Bradshaw’s life, yet the world had turned suddenly and...
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