The Wistful Skyline
The dream was not of flight, but of weight. Elias Thorne lay suspended in a grey void, holding a single, perfect apple in his palm. It was heavy, impossibly so, crushing his hand, yet he could not let it go. The skin of the fruit was a deep, bruised purple, and as he stared into it, he saw not the flesh inside, but a city. A sprawling, soot-stained city of iron and glass, stretching out to a...
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