The Wistful Witness
The rain against the windowpane of my study was not merely weather, but a persistent, rhythmic accusation, a ticking clock that measured out the seconds of my stagnation in heavy, viscous drops that blurred the view of the industrial city sprawling below, a labyrinth of brick and iron where the smoke from a thousand chimneys wove a grey shroud over the spires and rooftops, a suffocating blanket...
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