The Wistful Skyline
The first thing you notice is the smell, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat like old pennies held too long under the tongue, and it is only when you press the cold silver of the brooch against your palm that you see the rust-colored weep beginning to form on the metal, a slow, viscous tear that defies the logic of tarnish and oxidation. You are thirty-two years old, Elara, and...
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