The Wistful Witness
The rain falls hard on the cobblestones of the old city, washing the grime from the stones but never the shadow. You walk with your head low. The mud sucks at your boots. You are the inspector. You carry the weight of the law in your coat, heavy and wet. Your wife is gone. Not dead. Just gone. She walked into the mist three days ago and did not come back. The village calls it madness. They...
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