The Wistful Witness
The glass is cracked. You see the fracture line running through the center of the pane like a vein of ice, splitting the view of the garden into two disjointed halves. You stand before it, your hand resting on the cold surface, feeling the vibration of the house settling around you. It is a Tuesday in November, and the air inside the Chancellery is thick with the smell of old paper and the...
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