The Wistful Witness
The rain does not fall. It strikes. It hammers against the single, grimy pane of the basement window with a violence that feels personal, as if the sky itself is trying to break in. You are not afraid. Fear is a luxury for those who have not yet seen the shape of the thing in the corner. You are a detective of the impossible, a man who has spent thirty years cataloging the whispers of the dead...
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