The Wistful Witness
The rain fell in sheets. It hammered against the glass. I held the window latch. My knuckles were white. Blood trickled down my wrist. It mixed with the rain. I did not wipe it away. The office was dark. Only the streetlamp outside cast a long, yellow beam across the floor. It cut through the dust. It cut through the silence. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a detective. Or I was. The badge sits...
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