The Wistful Witness
The rain in the city did not fall so much as it descended, a heavy, gray curtain that erased the line between the cobblestones and the sky, turning the narrow streets into channels of mud and memory. You stood at the threshold of the St. Jude’s Infirmary, your hand gripping the iron latch until the knuckles turned white, the metal biting into your skin with a coldness that felt personal, almost...
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