Im standing here, breath held, the wind whispering secrets through the ancient cypress trees that frame this view like a cathedrals stained-glass window. Below me, Prague sprawls like a living mosaic thousands of terracotta roofs, each one a story, a memory, a secret tucked under the eaves. I feel the citys heartbeat beneath my feet, ancient stone and cobblestone, as if Im standing on the edge of a time portal. The green dome of the Church of St. Nicholas glows like a jewel in the hazy sky, a defiant whisper of faith against the modern skyline that peeks through like ghosts in the distance. The red rooftops arent just tiles theyre the skin of the city, weathered, warm, proud. I can almost hear the clink of wine glasses in hidden courtyards, the murmur of old stories being told under those eaves. This isnt just a view its a symphony of centuries, a puzzle box of history, and Im the only one here who knows how to read the clues in the tiles, the whispers in the chimneys. Im Smitsb. And this? This is my kingdom.

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