The Wistful Grid
The rain had not ceased for three days. It drummed against the leaded glass of my cell, a rhythmic, ceaseless percussion that marked time in the dark. I am Edric Thorne. I write this not for absolution, but for the record. The record is cold. The record is indifferent. I am an exile from the Court of Whispers, a man who sought the geometry of truth and found only the jagged teeth of the state....
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