The Wistful Witness
The ink on the fountain pen’s nib has dried into a rust-colored crust that cracks when you press the tip against the blotter, and you are scrubbing it with a cotton swab dampened with alcohol, the smell of ethanol sharp and sterile in the stale air of the archive, while outside the sleet hammers against the high, leaded windows of the Whitmore Hall annex. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years...
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