The Wistful Skyline
The fog did not rise from the river so much as it exhaled, a thick, grey breath that swallowed the cobblestones of Whitmore Lane and pressed against the windowpanes of my study with a persistent, damp insistence. I sat in the high-backed chair, the leather creaking softly under the weight of my stillness, and watched the city dissolve into a void. It was the winter of 1924, a season that felt...
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