The Wistful Skyline
The coffee in your mug has gone cold, a skin of brown film floating on the surface, and you are staring at it while your fingers drum a frantic, arrhythmic beat against the side of the ceramic. Across the glass-walled office, Julian stands by the window, his back to you, the charcoal wool of his suit absorbing the gray light of the Chicago afternoon until he looks less like a man and more like...
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