The Wistful Skyline
The first thing Elias Thorne did each morning was count the hours. He counted them on his fingers, a ritual as worn into the skin as the grooves in the wood of his desk. Five hours until the sun hit the east wall. Four hours until the shadows grew long enough to hide the delay. He was forty-two years old, an archivist in Harrowgate, a town that smelled of brine and drying fish, and he wanted...
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