The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grief that refused to touch the cobblestones of the Citadel’s outer courtyard. It was a morning of heavy, wet silence, the kind that presses against the eardrums and makes the bones ache with a dull, rhythmic throb. Colonel Thomas Bradshaw stood beneath the eaves of the guardhouse, his uniform damp at the collar, watching the mist swallow...
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