The Wistful Skyline
The dream began with the smell of coal dust and wet wool, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent lie. It was the winter of 1894, and the air in the great hall of the Whitmore estate hung heavy with the haze of a dozen gas lamps, their flames trembling in a draft that seemed to breathe from the walls themselves. Eleanor Whitmore stood at the center of the room, her hands...
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