The Wistful Witness
The train slows, a long, shuddering exhale that vibrates through the floorboards and up into the soles of your boots, carrying you toward the grey, rain-slicked platform of Ashworth Institute, where the air is thick with the scent of wet wool, stale coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of impending change. You are Margaret Holloway, or at least, you have been for the last three decades, a title...
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