The Wistful Skyline
The ledger of my remaining years is kept not in months, but in the fading of letters, and I have counted them carefully, one by one, until the count itself became a blur. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and I sit in the study of Blackwood Manor, a house that has not seen a new coat of paint since the war, attempting to finish the transcription of my father’s final journal. The ink in my...
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