The Wistful Witness
The letter lay on the heavy oak desk, its seal broken, the ink still drying in the corners where Arthur Vane’s hand had trembled. It was a request for a pardon, written in the stiff, formal script of a man who had spent his life looking at things no one else could see, and the paper felt cold and thin under his fingers, a flimsy shield against the weight of the room. Outside, the bells of the...
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