The Wistful Skyline
The dream was not a ghost story, but a ledger. I stood in Arthur’s study, the air thick with the cloying, rot-sweet scent of lilies that had long since wilted, and he held out a book bound in cracked leather. His face was blurred, a smudge of memory rather than a man, but his hands were precise, trembling as he pushed the volume into my chest. It was heavy, dense with the weight of unspoken...
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