The Wistful Skyline
The mist clings to the valley floor like a wet shroud, thick and grey, swallowing the base of the drowned church in a silence that feels less like peace and more like a held breath. You are twelve years old, Elias, and your hands are raw from the rope you have been pulling for three hours, your knuckles white against the coarse hemp. You want to be seen. Not as the son of the tanner, not as the...
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