The Wistful Witness
The rain fell on the manor house like a quiet verdict. It drummed against the leaded glass, a steady, rhythmic tapping that filled the silence of the study. Elias Thorne stood before the tall, narrow mirror. He was old. His uniform, once a crisp shade of forest green, now hung loose on his frame, the brass buttons tarnished by time and sweat. He did not look away. He could not. The man in the...
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