The Wistful Skyline
The road to the coast was a ribbon of grey tarmac that unspooled endlessly, blurring the edges of the world until the horizon was just a suggestion of blue against the white sky. I was sixteen, old enough to know that the world was broken, young enough to believe it could be fixed if I just looked hard enough at the right place. We were in the back of Dad’s station wagon, the upholstery hot and...
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