The Wistful Skyline
Elias Thorne’s thumb, rough and dry as the cork of a bottle he had not opened in years, pressed flat against the top of the leather-bound ledger to keep the pages from fluttering, a small, deliberate act of control that felt increasingly like a performance for an audience of one. The archive room in Oakhaven was quiet, save for the low, electrical hum of the ventilation fans and the distant,...
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