The Wistful Skyline
Luce Morisset’s hands were already stained black to the wrist, the ink of the morning’s transcription sinking into the creases of his knuckles as he hauled the final crate of cane records from the back of the bus. The radiator in the walk-up apartment knocked a rhythmic, hollow thud against the shared wall, a sound that had become as familiar to him as his own breathing over the last three...
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