The Wistful Skyline
The permit was for demolition, not for mercy, but the ink on the form seemed to bleed into the paper, a rust-colored stain that spread like a bruise under the skin of the document. Elias Thorne pressed his pen harder, the nib scratching against the fiber with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet office, as if he were trying to pierce the wall itself. He was forty-two years old, a city...
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