The Wistful Saga
The rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it existed, a persistent, gray membrane that pressed against the windows of the city like a damp hand trying to hold the world in place. Elias Thorne sat in the back of the taxi, watching the wipers sweep in a metronomic rhythm, each stroke erasing a moment only to replace it with another identical blur of wet asphalt and neon. He was a private...
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