The Wistful Skyline
The wind off the prairie carried the scent of dry dust and impending rain, a scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the slow decay of his own ambitions. He stood on the balcony of the crumbling estate, his fingers white-knuckled around the brass compass, which hummed against his palm with a low, persistent vibration that felt less like a mechanical function and more like a living...
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