The Wistful Witness
The cellar door groaned open, admitting a sliver of pale winter light that fell across the dust motes dancing in the stale air. "You’re late," Thomas said. He did not look up from the book in his lap. His fingers, stained with ink and old varnish, traced the spine of a volume bound in cracked leather. "I was beginning to think the river had taken you." Margaret stepped inside, her breath...
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