The Wistful Skyline
The ink on the intake form bled through the paper as my hand trembled, a dark stain spreading across the signature line of Juliette Duval, a woman whose pension hung by a thread. I am forty-two of Widow's Landing, a place where the fog rolls in from the harbor and makes the port useless, turning the stone quays into slick, treacherous mirrors. The smell of damp wool and stale tea hung heavy in...
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