The Wistful Skyline
Yamato Matsumoto had thirty-four years of service, a pension calculation that hinged on his fiftieth birthday, and a hand that trembled only when he held the bronze mirror polished to duty. The fog in Osaka’s shitamachi did not just obscure the view; it ate the sound of the bells at the Salt Gate, turning the morning into a muffled, physical weight that pressed against the windows of the...
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