The Wistful Skyline
The invoice lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly in the damp air, the ink for the final payment blurred by a smear of moisture that had no business being there. Elias Thorne signed it with a hand that trembled not from age, but from the cold that seemed to seep into his marrow every time he stepped into the Whitmore atrium. He was fifty-four years old, a master stonemason with three...
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