The Wistful Witness
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that smelled of wet copper and old stone, a scent that had permeated the walls of the Institute for the Preservation of the Past until it became indistinguishable from the dust itself, and in the center of that suspended world, Elias Thorne stood before the altar of the archive, his hands trembling not with cold but...
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