The Wistful Skyline
The ink was still wet on the ledger when Elias Thorne felt the weight of it, a cold, damp pressure settling against his right palm as if a small, dead bird had landed there. He was forty years old, his spine curved like a question mark in the low light of the Guild’s basement archive, and he had spent the last three hours cataloging the forbidden histories of Oakhaven to secure the pension that...
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