The Wistful Atlas
The rain against the windowpane of the precinct station was not merely water striking glass but a relentless, industrial drumming that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the marrow of your bones, a rhythmic pounding that mirrored the throb in the back of your skull where the concussion had settled itself days ago, a dull, persistent ache that served as a constant reminder of the...
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