The Wistful Skyline
The rain lashed against the slate tiles of the orphanage, a relentless drumming that sounded less like weather and more like the frantic scratching of ghosts trying to claw their way back into the living world. I was seven years old, shivering in a woolen tunic that had been mended so many times it had lost the memory of its original shape, and I was watching the Great Spire from the window of...
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