The Wistful Skyline
The rain in the city does not wash things clean. It only makes the grime slicker, turning the streets into mirrors for the broken lights of the upper floors. I work in the basement of the Grand Hotel, in a room that smells of wet wool and old paper. My job is simple, or so they say. I am a restorer. I fix the things that have been broken by time, by hands, by the heavy tread of the wealthy. But...
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