The Wistful Witness
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of the Whitehall approach, a sound that had long since become indistinguishable from the thumping of Elias Thorne’s own heart. He sat in the back, his hands clasped tightly around the leather satchel resting on his lap, the straps cutting into his wrists with a familiar, bruising intimacy. The satchel was not merely a container; it was an...
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