The Wistful Skyline
The cough did not arrive as a sound but as a physical tearing, a jagged ripping of the interior lining of Elias Thorne’s chest that left the taste of copper and cold ash thick upon his tongue. He lay on the narrow, sagging mattress of the tenement room, the air so dense with the particulate dust of the textile mill that it seemed to have its own weight, pressing down on his lungs like a damp...
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