The Wistful Show
The sky broke open above the valley of iron and ash. It was not rain, nor hail, but a slow, deliberate unraveling of the firmament. Threads of violet light, thick as rope, spilled down from the clouds, stitching themselves into the jagged peaks of the Blackridge Mountains. They were not beautiful. They were wrong. Elias Thorne stood on the precipice of the old rail line, his boots sinking into...
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