The Wistful Skyline
The truck rumbled over the last ridge, and the world below opened up like a wound in the earth. It was a place of scrub oak and dry creek beds, a landscape that seemed to hold its breath in the thinning air. Elias drove with his hands steady at ten and two, his knuckles white not from cold, but from the rigid discipline of a man who had long since stopped trusting his own pulse. Beside him, in...
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