The Wistful Skyline
The pencil snapped against the edge of the desk, shaving a thin ribbon of graphite that curled onto the floor like a dead worm. I did not pick it up. My hand was still trembling, a fine, high-frequency vibration that matched the low, persistent thrumming in the radio static. The outpost was quiet, save for that sound, a constant drone that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, or perhaps...
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