The Wistful Skyline
The ink in Arthur Penhaligon’s fountain pen had dried into a rust-colored crust, a small, hard knot of failure at the tip that refused to yield to the blotter. He pressed the nib against the ledger, a sharp scratch that tore the paper slightly, and stared at the blank space where his marginal notes should have been. For three years, Arthur had maintained the city exchange’s general ledger with...
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