The Wistful Skyline
Bakken’s Ledger, Entry 14: Grain, rye, 40 sacks, short by 2. Leif Bakken stood in the longhouse, the smell of wet wool and stale smoke pressing against his skin like a heavy hand, while the shutter outside banged its hollow, wooden rhythm against the frame, a sound that had become as constant and intrusive as his own breathing over the last three weeks. He was thirty-two, a watchman of the...
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