The Wistful Witness
The rain had turned the cobblestones of Whitmore Square into black mirrors, reflecting the gaslight in trembling, fractured pools. I stood at the corner, my uniform slick with the dampness, watching the carriage disappear into the fog. The heavy wool coat I wore was a burden, a second skin that clung to my shoulders like a guilty conscience. It was a gift from the Ministry, a token of...
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