The Wistful Skyline
The air in the Hall of Whispers tastes of copper and old rain, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and settles into the marrow of your bones, creating a persistent, humming vibration that you have learned to mistake for your own heartbeat after years of listening to the silence of the front lines. You stand here, in this place that is not a place, a vast cathedral of light where...
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