The Wistful Witness
The rain against the windowpane of the basement office sounded like a slow, rhythmic tapping of knuckles, a persistent demand for attention that no one in the Bureau of Anomalous Records ever fully answered. Elias Thorne sat hunched over a desk cluttered with manila folders and cold coffee, his eyes fixed on the digital clock that blinked 3:14 AM. He was a man who had spent twenty years...
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