The Wistful Ashes
The rain in Oakhaven does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cracked asphalt of our streets into black mirrors that reflect only the gray, weeping sky above. I have walked these streets for thirty years, first as a cadet in the uniform of the Bureau, then as a man in a suit who held the weight of the town’s silence in his hands, and now as a ghost who still...
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