The Wistful Skyline
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Foundry was not a place of celebration but of containment, a vast, iron-bellied cathedral where the heat of the day’s labor was banked and preserved in the heavy air. It was the kind of warmth that settled into the bones, a physical weight that pressed against the temples and dulled the edges of thought, and in this room, surrounded by the clatter of cutlery...
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