The Wistful Witness
The rain had been falling on the city of Harrowgate for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones into dark mirrors reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps, and in the basement archive of the Municipal Historical Society, where the air smelled of mildew, decaying paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of old iron, Elias Thorne sat hunched over a desk that had...
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