The Distant Affair
The rain hammered the slate roof like a thousand small fists. You stood at the window of the archive, your hands gripping the cold iron sill. The glass was warped, a relic of a century gone by, and through its distorted lens, the street below was a smear of gray and shadow. You were not alone. Behind you, in the hush of the reading room, Thomas Bradshaw sat at his desk, his quill scratching a...
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