The Distant Whispers
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the lower district into a slick, reflective mirror that distorted the gas lamps into long, weeping streaks of amber and shadow, while Thomas Whitmore sat in his cramped office on the fourth floor of the municipal archive, his hands trembling not from the chill that seeped through the single-pane window but from the sudden,...
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