The Wistful Skyline
The bell tower stood silent above the village, a hollow eye staring down at the market square where the cobblestones were slick with rain. I sat in the high gallery, watching the mud below, my hands resting on the wooden railing that had worn smooth under the palms of a thousand generations. Below, the crowd was thick and restless. They did not know who I was, not truly. They knew I was the...
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