The Wistful Skyline
The bell above the door jingled, a sharp, brittle sound that cut through the thick, amber haze of the shop, and you looked up from the needle and thread to see the face of the man who had been your father’s master before he was even a man, a man whose beard was white as the frost that clings to the windowpanes in the dead of winter. "You have not changed," he said, and his voice was like dry...
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