The Wistful Skyline
"Did you hear about the school closing?" I looked up from the workbench, my hands stained with the ochre dust of the mantle’s lining. The air in the restoration room was still, broken only by the low, rhythmic hum of the oxygen concentrator I had rented for my breathing, a machine that kept me alive while the world outside tried to suffocate me. "I heard," I said, not turning around. "Gary is...
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