The Wistful Witness
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that turned the grandeur of the Hall into a mausoleum of damp stone and forgotten breath, where Colonel Elias Thorne stood at the center of the marble floor, his boots sinking slightly into the wet polish, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the terrible, electric weight of the silence that pressed against...
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