The Wistful Skyline
The mud was cold enough to ache in the joints, a damp, gray paste that smelled of wet wool and old iron, and Elias Thorne held the rusted compass against his chest as if it were a second heart, its needle trembling not toward north but toward a farmhouse in Ohio where a woman named Martha was likely washing dishes or staring out a window, and he wanted, with a hunger that felt like a physical...
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