The Wistful Skyline
The note from the factory manager lay on the workbench, its edge curling in the damp air that seeped through the single window of the workshop. Arthur Vane did not read it immediately. He held the porcelain beak in his left hand, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the specific, grinding friction of his own doubt. The bird was a thing of white clay, once whole, now a ruin of three...
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