The Wistful Skyline
You stand on the platform of the depot in Leeds, the air thick with the scent of coal dust and wet wool, watching the iron lattice of the clock tower stretch upward into a sky that is not blue but a bruised, industrial gray, a ceiling of soot and steam that seems to press down upon the city with the weight of a millstone, and you are here because you have been summoned, not by a letter but by...
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