The Wistful Skyline
The dream began with the sound of tearing metal, a shriek that vibrated in my teeth before it reached my ears. I was standing on a bridge of iron and rust, the kind we built in the late decades of the last century, when ambition outpaced the strength of the materials. Below, a river of black sludge churned against the pilings, thick with the silt of a thousand industrial winters. In my hands, I...
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