The Wistful Witness
The pen in Elias Thorne’s hand was a heavy, brass-nibbed instrument that had belonged to his father, its gold leaf flaking away to reveal the dull, oxidized metal beneath, and he held it with a grip that turned his knuckles white as he stared at the wet stone of the foyer floor, where the rain from the open front door was pooling in shallow, dark puddles that reflected the chandelier above like...
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