The Wistful Witness
It began with the smell of rust and wet wool. Colonel Elias Thorne stood on the balcony. The city of Manchester sprawled below, choked by smoke. The year was 1890. The air tasted of coal dust. He was a man of law. Or he had been. Now he was a ghost in a uniform that fit too loose. His boots were old. The leather cracked at the heels. He looked down at the street. A hawk circled. It was small. A...
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