The Distant Whispers
The rain did not fall; it hung. It suspended in the air above Millhaven like a grey curtain, thick with the smell of wet stone and diesel. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood on the porch of the precinct, his hand resting on the railing. The wood was slick under his palm. He watched the street below. There was no one there. Just the cars, parked and silent, their mirrors reflecting the empty sky. Elias...
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