The Wistful Skyline
The wind did not blow; it hammered, a physical weight against my chest that threatened to crack my ribs. I sat atop my mare, Bess, her breath misting in thick, violent plumes before my face, while the palsy in my right hand tightened the reins until the leather bit into my palm. I was forty-two, and my body felt like a rusted hinge, stiff and screaming with every movement. I wanted Callum. I...
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