The Wistful Skyline
The black sap bled from the limestone as if the rock were a wound that had forgotten how to close. Elias Thorne, his hands raw and mapped with the white scars of forty years’ labor, stared at the dark fluid seeping from the joints of the central spire, a substance that defied the dry, dusty logic of stone and mortar. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the winter wind had already begun to...
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