The Wistful Skyline
The rain had not stopped in three days, a grey, persistent mist that clung to the brickwork of St. Jude’s Infirmary like a shroud refusing to be lifted. Inside the ward, the air smelled of boiled starch, carbolic soap, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. Eleanor Vance sat by the window, her hands resting on the cold iron railing, watching the skyline dissolve into the haze. She was not a...
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