The Wistful Witness
The air in the room tasted of copper and old paper, a thick, stagnant pressure that pressed against my eardrums like a deep-sea dive, and I was hunched over the desk, the calculator’s plastic keys clicking with a frantic, arrhythmic urgency as I tried to force the numbers to yield to the reality of Elise’s absence. It was 1998, and the office of Halloway & Sons Actuarial Services was a sealed...
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