The Wistful Witness
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high, narrow windows of the stone house on the hill, a persistent, rhythmic tapping that felt less like weather and more like a judgment. I sat in the study, the room I had occupied for the last decade, my hands folded in my lap, resting on the cold mahogany. The air smelled of damp wool and old paper, a scent that had become...
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