The Wistful Skyline
Dr. Elias Thorne’s hand hovered over the brass doorknob, trembling not from the chill of the Chicago autumn but from the sudden, violent weight of the silence that had settled into the marrow of his bones, a silence that was not empty but thick with the scent of ozone and wet plaster, the specific atmospheric pressure that precedes a storm or a collapse. He was forty years old, a historian of...
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