The Wistful Skyline
Thorne. The name hung in the air of the dispatch room, heavy and sharp, spoken by the desk sergeant with the kind of casual disdain that usually preceded a reprimand, but today it felt like a summons from a court I had already lost in. I stood by the window, watching the lighthouse beam sweep across the grey water, its rhythmic pulse cutting through the fog like a metronome counting down to a...
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