The Faded Photograph
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the lower town into a slick, reflective mirror of the leaden sky, and it was within this damp, oppressive silence that Thomas Whitmore sat in the small, windowless office at the end of the corridor, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the metallic tang of the iron grate that barred the...
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