The Wistful Witness
The ink is still wet on the final page of the quarterly report, the black pigment bleeding into the cheap, pulp-thick paper like a bruise forming under the skin of a pale winter day, and you sit in the high-backed leather chair that smells of stale tobacco and damp wool, your left hand resting heavily on the desk, the fingers curled around the hilt of a silver fountain pen that has been in your...
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