The Wistful Witness
The rain in Chicago did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, heavier, pressing the city into a single, wet, breathing mass of gray. Elias Thorne stood on the corner of Wabash and Madison, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a wool coat that had seen better decades. The coat was a heavy charcoal thing, thick with the dust of a hundred cases and the sweat of a hundred...
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