The Wistful Mirror
The rain fell on the cobblestones of London like a cold, persistent judgment. It slicked the black stone, turning the narrow street into a ribbon of dark water that reflected the gaslights above. In the small, dim office of the Metropolitan Police, Inspector Arthur Hale sat alone. The room smelled of stale tobacco and damp wool. On his desk lay a single photograph, its edges frayed, showing a...
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