The Wistful Skyline
Vane. The name hung in the air of the office, sharp and cold, spoken by Mr. Thorne with the particular disdain of a man who has watched a good mind rot. I looked up from the drafting table, where the ink was still wet on the plans for the Oakhaven water tower, and met his eyes. He was seventy-eight, a man carved from the same grey stone as the town’s factory chimneys, and he did not blink. "You...
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