The Wistful Skyline
The ledger lay open on the desk, its spine cracked and oozing a faint, sweet scent of mildew, and Elias Thorne traced the columns of numbers with a finger that felt too large for the delicate task. The ink was faded, a ghostly blue that had bled into the paper’s fibers years ago, but the entries were clear: maintenance logs for Sector Four, the district where the gas main had ruptured and taken...
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