The Wistful Witness
The rain had not stopped for nine days. It drummed against the high, narrow windows of the Watchtower, a relentless, grey percussion that seemed to hollow out the stone itself. I stood by the glass, my hand resting on the cold sill, watching the mist cling to the valley below. It was a thick, woolly fog that swallowed the trees, erasing the line between the earth and the sky. In this isolation,...
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