The Wistful Skyline
The fog that settled over Blackwood Mill did not roll in from the sea, as was customary in the autumn of 1893, but seemed to rise from the very floorboards of the workshop, a thick, grey exhalation that tasted of wet wool and old iron. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the room, his hands suspended in the air, holding nothing but a sliver of polished mahogany, and watched the mist curl around...
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