The Wistful Witness
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that blurred the windows of the archive until the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the smell of damp wool and the slow, rhythmic decay of paper. I sat in my small, windowless office, the hum of the ventilation system a low, constant drone that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones, and watched the timestamp on the...
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