The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-20 13:48:02 -

The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the manor, a rhythmic, metallic tapping that seemed to synchronize with the beating of my heart. I stood in the library, holding a brass instrument I had not touched in a decade. It was a surveyor’s theodolite, modified with a lens I had ground myself from quartz and silver. The glass was cold against my palm, slick...

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