The Wistful Letter
The rain in Harrow’s End did not fall so much as it hovered, a persistent, grey mist that clung to the skin like a second, damp layer of reality. Detective Elias Thorne sat in his office, the blinds drawn against the afternoon gloom, watching his own reflection shimmer in the dark glass of his monitor. He was a man of sharp angles and softer regrets, his uniform pressed to a rigidity that...
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