The Wistful Skyline
Chapter One The air in the Ministry of Cultural Heritage always tasted of wet plaster and old ink, a dry, metallic tang that settled in the back of the throat like a swallowed stone, and it was in this particular dryness that I first felt the ceramic bowl grow warm against my palm, a subtle heat that defied the chill of the archive room where I had spent twenty years cataloguing the remnants of...
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