The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, gray mist that clung to the windshield of the sedan like a second skin, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of indistinct shapes and muted grays. Inside, the air was stale, recycled by the heater into a warm, stifling bubble that smelled faintly of wet wool and old coffee. Julian sat in the passenger seat, his hands resting on his...
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