The Distant Joke
The rain had been falling for three days, a grey, relentless sheet that turned the cobblestones of the city into slick, black mirrors. You stood in the center of the square, the old oak tree behind you a dark, gnarled sentinel against the overcast sky, its branches heavy with water that dripped with a rhythmic, mocking patience. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and for the last six...
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