The Wistful Witness
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the tin roof of the shop, a relentless, metallic tapping that matched the rhythm of your own restless pulse. You sat behind the counter, the smell of oil and old wood hanging heavy in the air, staring at the empty space where your wife, Eleanor, used to stand. She had been gone for a week, but the ghost of her presence was still thick...
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