The Wistful Witness
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a pervasive, gray humidity that seeped into the very mortar of the old textile mill where Elias Thorne had spent the last four decades of his life, a structure of brick and iron that stood like a sentinel against the encroaching fog of the valley, its windows dark eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of the local economy, the birth and death of...
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