The Distant Ghost
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that smelled of wet iron and old stone. I stood before the window of my small office in the district courthouse, watching the city bleed into the night. My left hand, the one that had held the rifle for three years, rested on the desk, still. It was a heavy hand, thick-knuckled and scarred, a map of violence that I...
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