The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 15:38:11 -

The glass was cold. It bit into my palm. I held it steady. My hands did not shake. They never shook. "Is it done, Sergeant?" The voice came from the dark. It was thin. It was wet. I looked at the window. The window was broken. Not cracked. Shattered. A spiderweb of white lines across the pane. The air rushed in. It smelled of rain and rust. It smelled of iron. "Almost," I said. My voice was...

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