The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-18 16:11:15 -

The air tasted of copper and wet stone. I walked. The ground beneath my boots was soft, yielding like damp clay. It was not earth. It was not snow. It was something else. Something that remembered being alive. I had been here for days. Or years. Time had lost its teeth here. It did not bite. It only rotted. I was an exile. I knew this fact as I knew my own name. James. James Whitmore. I had...

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