The Wistful Skyline
The bill lay on the desk, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the manor. It was a simple slip of paper, stained with a ring of cold tea, detailing the final arrears owed to the Crown before the estate’s title would revert to the Crown’s custody. You looked at the date, then at your hands, which trembled not from age but from the sudden, violent intrusion of a dream. In the dream, ink...
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