The Wistful Skyline
The grease under your fingernails is black and stubborn, digging into the cuticles as you scrub the ledger entry for the Harrow account, the rubber eraser clicking against the paper with a rhythm that feels too much like a clock ticking down the last hours of your life. It is November, 1924, and the fog outside the window of the Whitmore & Sons Bank office is not white but a bruised, shifting...
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