The Wistful Skyline
The dream began not with sound, but with the weight of iron, a dense and suffocating pressure that compressed the lungs until the breath became a thin, metallic thread, and in that suffocating dark, the architecture of the past rose up to meet the present, the walls of the old mill not made of stone but of memory, thick and calcified, pressing inward with the relentless, slow gravity of a debt...
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