The Wistful Saga
The rain on the roof of the patrol car was a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to synchronize with the thudding of my own heart, a wet, gray curtain that hid the rest of the city but did nothing to shield me from the cold seeping into my bones through the thin fabric of my uniform, a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the hollow feeling that had...
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