The Wistful Skyline
The steam from the ironing board curled upward like a ghost trying to escape the room, wrapping around Clara’s wrists in a cold, damp embrace that smelled of lye and old wool. She was in the narrow, soot-stained apartment on the fourth floor of the Bradshaw Building, a structure that groaned under the weight of the city’s relentless industry, its windows fogged with the exhalations of a...
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