The Wistful Skyline
The heavy wool cloak you inherited from your uncle hangs in the drafty hallway, its hem brushing the cold stone floor with a sound like a whispered warning. You have worn it for three days straight, the thick fabric absorbing the damp chill of the autumn forest, and now it feels less like clothing and more like a second skin, a layer of armor stitched from grief and duty. The village of...
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