The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-18 08:01:00 -

The rain fell on the cobblestones of Blackfriars. It was a grey, relentless drumming. I left the house before dawn. The door clicked shut. I did not look back. I carried a small leather satchel. Inside was a vial. The glass was warm. It held a pale, golden liquid. It smelled of honey and rot. It smelled of the earth. I was a finder. A seeker of the lost. Or so I told myself. I walked through...

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